


They Who Inherited the Earth

by nursehelena



Series: Meanwhile, Off-Screen... [1]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Child Abuse, Casual Sex, Gen, Pre-Dethklok, Recreational Drug Use, Supernatural Elements, The Curse of Dethklok Coda, Threesome - F/M/M, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 53,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nursehelena/pseuds/nursehelena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ingredients for the Metalocalypse are strewn to all corners of the world. Only the strong hand of fate can organize them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It All Started in Norway

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this a couple years ago with no real idea what I was doing. It was strictly from Skwisgaar's point of view back then, so when I got the idea to give this another shot I alternated respectively between Skwisgaar, Nathan, Pickles, Charles, Toki, and Murderface's perspectives.

A chilly wind cut through the late-May air, numbing the sore muscles in Skwisgaar Skwigelf's arms and hands. The adrenaline rush from being on stage waned, and the sensation of his blond, shoulder-length hair brushing against the base of his neck failed to quell the shiver that rode up his spine. As he rubbed his arms and set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, he couldn't help but wish that, like his band mates, he brought a coat.

Even though a few minutes of labor generated a small portion of body heat, he could no longer ignore that his black tee shirt was thinner than usual. He hoped that he and the other members of Gognogmug would soon subject themselves to the godsend of a heater in Tallak's van, now that their gear and instruments were loaded. Said drummer seemed also to entertain the idea, but neither he nor Skwisgaar were the one that made the band's decisions. That particular role was left for Arvid, their vocalist and frontman.

"Fuck, that went well," Arvid harshly spoke as he slammed the van's backdoor. "What say we go back in to celebrate?"

Egil, the bassist, rubbed his neck and turned away. Tallak then replied with a minor slur, "Skwisgaar's too young. The owner said they'd only let him in for the show."

Arvid's dark eyes darted towards Skwisgaar, inciting tense anxiety. "I'm going to go back in and buy some beer, then. Swing the van around."

"You ought to bring a jacket next time," Tallak eyed Skwisgaar pointedly as he glanced over his shoulder from the driver's seat. "Lillehammer is still cold, this time of the year."

Skwisgaar nodded, but didn't meet Tallak's gaze. None of them knew that Skwisgaar was forced to buy his own meals, mend his own clothes, and wake himself up for school every morning. The only thing they knew at  _all_ , in fact, was that Skwisgaar played the guitar and he played it well.

They scooped him up a mere two weeks ago, after witnessing an onstage quarrel between Skwisgaar and the rhythm guitarist of his former band. Skwisgaar went from the middle of a solo to berating the other guitarist, who was nearly in tears. When he left the stage that night, he found himself immediately surrounded and being sold on the idea of joining Gognogmug. He agreed right away, as soon as Arvid made it clear that he would be the  _only_  guitarist.

Gognogmug tiptoed around him for their first few practices, but soon caught on that Skwisgaar was not perpetually outraged. They relaxed—all but Arvid. When he learned that Skwisgaar was easy-going when granted creative freedom and input, the snide remarks began. Skwisgaar had a very good feeling that, just like every other band he'd been in, this one wouldn't work out.

The van's passenger door slammed shut, and Arvid's gruff voice greeted his ears. "Let's get out of here. I think the guy noticed me swipe a couple cigars."

The shopkeeper glared suspiciously out the front window, and seemed to consider calling them back. However, before the man could make up his mind, Tallak slammed the van in gear and they left the place in thick, black smoke.

Arvid pulled the tab on his first beer of the night. As their singer commenced to down it all in one go, Skwisgaar and Egil sunk further down in their seat. Neither of them much appreciated Arvid when he drank. He made it his mission to pick on Skwisgaar, and ever since Egil stuck up for him the weekend before, he too was shown no mercy.

Arvid burped loudly when he finished his beer, causing everyone else in the van to wrinkle their noses in distaste. He then crushed the beer can in his hand and tossed it over his shoulder, narrowly missing Egil.

Tallak frowned. "I hope you're going to pick that up."

"Later," Arvid waved him off before detaching another beer from the six-pack.

Skwisgaar gazed out the window after Tallak gave up the argument, and couldn't help but feel as though something was out of place. The people that roamed the town in daylight hadn't looked like this. . .

Arvid grunted. "Can you believe those weirdoes? You'd think they'd have the common sense to wait until dark before they flock toward that church."

Tallak smirked at the singer. "Didn't you try to get into that building, once?"

"Ja, a few years ago," Arvid replied unabashedly. "I wanted to see what kind of faith it was. Judging by the way they're dressed, I bet you they're some derivative of the Satanic church."

"Laveyan, you mean?" Egil asked with furrowed eyebrows.

Arvid shrugged. "Don't think so. They would have let me in, wouldn't they, if I showed interest?"

"What did they do?"

"Just turned me away," Arvid snipped. "I told them over and over again that I wanted to come in, but they just kept pushing me back."

Tallak narrowed his eyes in thought. "I heard a rumour once that you need to be born into their faith in order to belong. Maybe that's why you weren't allowed in."

Arvid chortled cruelly. "It's just as well. Can you imagine having to wear those robes all year round? I mean, they'd be too thin for winter, too thick for summer. . . they might be comfortable on a night like this, though."

They pulled into Arvid's driveway. His parents either went out for the evening or retired to bed, not that Skwisgaar saw much of them. The band spent most of their time down in the basement, either drinking, sleeping, practicing, or smoking pot. Skwisgaar had yet to actually take a toke of Arvid's weed, but only because he didn't need to in order to get high. The basement teemed with it.

The strong, stale smell of marijuana hit Skwisgaar as he helped pack their things down. Once everything was cleared, he lazily collapsed on Arvid's broken couch, leaned back, and shut his eyes. Arvid opened another beer and threw Egil and Tallak their own. Skwisgaar heard three cracks, and then Egil speak. "Cheers."

The three older boys drank to their successful gig. A few smacking lips and a small burp followed it, and then a soft chuckle. "Kid's dead asleep, I think."

"He put on a good set, though," Tallak quietly told Arvid, as though worried he'd wake their retired guitarist. "He deserves to sleep."

"I figured he'd want to celebrate with us."

"Just give him a few minutes—"

"Skwisgaar," Arvid sternly spoke. "You awake?"

Skwisgaar opened one eye.

"Do you want a beer? I got enough for you."

Skwisgaar shook his head. He had no desire whatsoever to face Arvid when he finally became drunk. If Skwisgaar fell asleep, or at least pretended to be out for the night, he could maybe avoid the inevitable.

"All right." To Skwisgaar's surprise, Arvid didn't sound angry or annoyed at all. "More for me then, I guess."

The stillness that followed this proclamation voiced the others' thoughts perfectly.  _'Great.'_

Skwisgaar peered around through his eyelashes. To his left, Arvid opened another beer. Across from him, in a ratty recliner, Tallak eyed Arvid warily; lines became more and more pronounced on Arvid's forehead as he pounded beer after beer back.

Afterward, he crossed his arms. "I'm out of beer."

Tallak visibly braced himself. "Well, I'm sorry dude, but I've had too much to drink. If I get pulled over again, they're going to take my license away—"

"Well, my record is clean." Arvid hoisted himself to his feet. "Give me your keys."

Tallak's hand went immediately to his pocket. "No way! You've had  _way_  too much! You'll crash it."

Skwisgaar decided to 'wake up', now that he would not be Arvid's subject of degradation for the evening. Egil did the same, he noticed.

Arvid took a step towards the drummer, who immediately put his hands up in defence. "Look, if you want some bad enough, we could walk. It's not like it's very far to that other place—"

Through the fog the alcohol provided Arvid, he processed this proposal. When he saw that everyone's attention rested on him, he jerked his head in the direction of the staircase. "Come on, let's go, then."

Egil grunted as he stood up and followed. Skwisgaar was behind him, but stopped with one foot on the bottom step when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Skwisgaar turned back to face Tallak, and found the drummer holding his coat. "Here, you're going to need this."

His blue eyes studied the coat before hesitantly taking it. "I don't think—"

"I've got a sweater. You'll need this more." Tallak clapped him on the shoulder again before brushing past him in pursuit of Arvid and Egil. Skwisgaar held the man's jacket forlornly in his hands. When Tallak disappeared, his gaze fell down onto the article of clothing he held. The longer he stared at it, the closer his eyebrows moved together.

He cursed Tallak for being so kind. Skwisgaar learned early on in his venture to be a guitarist that he should not grow close to other members in his bands. He never stayed long, and the more detached he remained, the easier telling them he found a better deal with some other hopeful group of musicians was. Gognogmug was going to be hard to leave, when the time came. Arvid, Skwisgaar would have no problem whatsoever letting go. In fact, he hoped that once his time in Gognogmug ran its course, he never saw the putrid man again. Tallak, however. . . might be harder.

"Hey!" a harsh voice came from the top of the stairs. "What's taking you, down there? Let's go! I'm starting to sober up."

A lurch of the stomach accompanied Skwisgaar's sneer. However, he did not dare defy Arvid when the prospect of unwanted sobriety loomed before him. So, instead of arguing, he threw Tallak's coat over his shoulders and ran up the stairs to join the rest of the band.

They stepped back into the chilling night, and were on their way down the street once Arvid had locked up the house behind them. Skwisgaar, Tallak, and Egil merely followed at a healthy distance. The Norwegian wind pummelled against them, and Skwisgaar pulled Tallak's coat tighter around him. An arm shot out as Arvid came to a stop. Skwisgaar looked up in confusion as it connected with his chest, but then saw how intently the singer stared ahead. Candlelight could be seen through the stained windows of that church and quiet chanting heard, but this was not what captured Arvid. It was what sat on the front steps, or  _who_ , more accurately. Skwisgaar squinted into the darkness, and saw that it was a little kid, probably only a few years younger than himself.

It was not the kid himself that compelled Skwisgaar to speak, but what he was holding. " _Pfft_ , look at his grandpa's guitar."

Arvid smirked and looked at Skwisgaar appreciatively. For a moment, Skwisgaar assumed that Arvid would take the comment in stride and they would continue on their way to the liquor store. Instead, he chuckled, stepped off the sidewalk, and made his way towards the church. "Come on. This could turn out better than getting drunk."

Egil made a sound of disgust. "Arvid,  _no_. He's just a little kid—"

A glare silenced him.

Beside Egil, Tallak anxiously tucked a loose strand of hair in behind his ear as Arvid steadily tread along the beaten path. "We  _should_  try to stop him. . ."

It was unanimously decided, and so Egil, Tallak, and Skwisgaar followed Arvid. However, by the time they reached the church, he already began his taunting.

"Do your parents go to church here?"

Skwisgaar was surprised that Arvid's harsh voice did not cause the young boy to jump where he sat. Instead, he stopped casually strumming his guitar, and slowly brought his gaze to meet Arvid's. Given the immaturity about his appearance and his miniscule size, Skwisgaar mentally placed his age as somewhere around ten.

Arvid crossed his arms. "Well? Do your parents attend this church?"

The boy failed to answer. Instead, his pale blue eyes moved away from Arvid and traveled over the other band members, who loomed unwillingly in the background. They had merely grazed Skwisgaar when Arvid snapped his fingers impatiently in front of the boy's face. "Don't speak much, do you? Maybe  _this_  will loosen your tongue."

Skwisgaar's mouth fell open when he saw Arvid rip the guitar from the boy's grasp. However, instead of yelling at the older boy to give it back, crying about being stripped of his possession, or anything else that Skwisgaar was sure  _he'd_  do in this situation, the kid remained silent, his face blank and unreadable. For all the emotion he showed, nothing was out of the ordinary.

Arvid became frustrated quickly, irritated at his inability to force a reaction from the young boy. This did not end his endeavour, though. "Wait a minute. . . I've seen you walking around with that guy with the hat. You're the reverend's son, aren't you? How come you aren't in there, drinking pig's blood with the rest of them?"

Nothing.

"Let's  _go_ , Arvid," Tallak whispered. "Give him back his guitar, and let's get out of here."

Arvid apparently wanted nothing more than to bother this kid further, but his lack of effect discouraged him. His eyes darted back and forth as he weighed his choices, but before he could make up his mind, the double doors at the top of the stairs opened.

Having been concentrating on Arvid's ploy, Skwisgaar failed to notice that the chanting ended. As he looked up at the equally stunned congregation with wide mouth and eyes, he urged his feet to carry him away. With the multitude of looks he received from the church members, he didn't even think that stopping at Arvid's house would suffice. In fact, the thought of sprinting the three-hundred mile distance back home seemed all the more appealing in this moment.

From the crowd above, there emerged a woman. She descended the stairs towards the small boy and placed a hand upon his shoulder. Her gaze never once wavered from Arvid, and the intense lifelessness behind her pupils pushed  _them_  all back. Skwisgaar waited for the woman to say something—anything—but just like the boy, she seemed incapable of speech.

A hand closed around Skwisgaar's upper arm. "Let's leave."

Skwisgaar couldn't think of a better idea. Once Tallak prompted him, he found himself running across the lawn, closely followed by the rest of Gognogmug. He did not stop, slow, or glance back over his shoulder until Arvid's house came into view. When they reached the entrance, Arvid fumbled shakily with his house key. After stepping inside and slamming the door behind him, he sunk down against it.

Skwisgaar bent forward onto his knees in attempt to catch his breath. He peeled the leather off his sticky skin and dropped it listlessly onto the floor. What could he say, besides ' _I told you so'_?

Something was wrong with Arvid though, and this rendered Skwisgaar speechless. He'd never seen the man so vulnerable or afraid, before. He shook from head to toe, and a fine layer of sweat shone on his forehead. He rocked back and forth ever so slightly, muttering incoherently under his breath.

"Dude, are you all right?" Tallak quietly asked.

"Did you hear it?" Arvid replied in a forlorn voice. "Did you hear what she said to me?"

As far as Skwisgaar could remember, the woman hadn't spoken a word.

"What are you talking about?"

Arvid shuddered and shook his head. "Never mind. Maybe I—Maybe I'll just go to bed."

Tallak, Egil, and Skwisgaar watched as their singer rose shakily to his feet and stumbled toward the hallway. They remained in the kitchen as he noisily descended into the basement, followed by the soft slam of his bedroom door. They glanced at each other with uncertainty, and then slowly made their own way to the lower level, where they too would try to sleep and forget about their odd night. It felt like days ago that they were on stage.

Skwisgaar closed his eyes immediately upon resting his head on the couch's armrest. Another chill ran along his spine, but this time, it had nothing to do with the coldness outside. In fact, the last things that he saw before finally losing consciousness were the icy grey eyes of the reverend's wife and the pale blues of her strange son.

Skwisgaar awoke suddenly in the night, and realized after a few brief seconds of disorientation that something was most definitely wrong. The dark basement lit up with screams, pleas, and a loud, repeated banging. He jumped up from where he lay and looked around with bleary eyes. Two silhouettes stood against Arvid's bedroom door, one pounding ruthlessly against it, and the other yelling at the top of their lungs.

"Arvid! What's going on in there?" It was Tallak.

A long string of expletives followed this question, nothing of which actually answered it. Skwisgaar flinched as a loud bang came from within the bedroom. It sounded as though Arvid ran headlong into the wall. Scurrying followed, and more light pleading. "Don't kill me, please, don't kill me. . ."

" _Arvid!_ "

"Don't kill me, don't kill me, don't—oh. . . oh  _God!_   _What are you_ _doing?_ " An ear-piercing screech followed. When the air in Arvid's lungs ran out, sobbing and heavy breathing succeeded his previous noise. "Please. . . I didn't know,  _I didn't_ _know_ _—!_ "

And then there was silence.

Now that Skwisgaar's mind had been roused, he ran forward, and joined Egil and Tallak as they broke down Arvid's door, but if the blood seeping out from underneath it told them anything, it was that nothing could be done.


	2. The Sunshine State

". . .All right, great. Thank you, Caroline. And who wants to read the part of Macbeth, today?"

The class silently stared back at the teacher, all but one. At the back of the room, a thick kid nearly bursting out of the tiny desks provided by the great state of Florida fixated on the doodle in the margin of his notebook. A skull formed, with nails driven in about his brow line. Rather than pain, the skull boasted an expression of maniacal glee.

"Nathan? How about you?"

The kid's neck muscles tensed. "No thank you, I'd rather not."

A couple students tittered, forcing Nathan to further withdraw. Only when Mrs. Nocturnus leaned on his desk did his hand slow. "May I remind you that ten percent of your grade is participation?"

"I can live with a B. Thank you."

"Politeness isn't going to get you out of this one, I'm afraid. You're Macbeth."

Nathan glared at as many kids he could in one go as the teacher returned to the front of the classroom. Even though he'd quit football a few weeks ago, he needn't remind anyone that he could still kick their ass if compelled.

"Start us off, Nathan." Mrs. Nocturnus cleared her throat. " _'Blood hath been shed 'ere, now'._ "

Nathan leisurely found the correct page. "Blood hath. . .blood hath been shed 'ere, now. I the olden time—"

"I', Nathan. Like in. Not I, as in you."

"There's no N."

"Keep reading."

Nathan inhaled deeply: "IdoforgetdonotmuseatmemymostworthyfriendsIhaveast rangeinfirmirywhichisnothingtothosethatknowmecomel oveandhealthtoall. . ."

The class failed to suppress their amusement as Nathan came to the end of his passage and took another deep breath before he passed out. Mrs. Nocturnus peered over her glasses. "And what is the meaning of what you just read?"

"I don't have a fu—clue."

"It means that you just read the wrong passage. Go back one and start over."

Nathan's clawed hand fell to his side, hot anger pooling into his stomach. With a growl of frustration, he pushed everything off his desk. "Fuck this! I don't wanna read Shakespeare! This guy was an asshole!"

"Nathan. . ." Mrs. Nocturnus put forth in a warning tone.

"Fuck this, and fuck you!" Nathan pointed around the room. "This is fucking bullshit. I'm outta here."

He slammed the classroom door behind him, but returned a few seconds later to collect his notebook. "I forgot this."

With nowhere else to go unless he wanted supreme shit from his mother at home, Nathan's motorcycle squealed on every turn between the high school and the only person he could turn to. None of his old buddies wanted anything to do with him, since apparently dropping football equated to contracting leprosy. He parked his bike on the lawn of a place he'd never consider calling even a dump. Its windows were long smashed out, replaced temporarily-turned-permanently by plywood, and the door had been kicked in so many times that it now relied solely on a latch to keep it closed. Not that Murderface ever worried about security. Even rats and cockroaches considered the shack beneath them. In the event that someone ever tried to enter without Murderface's awareness, they'd subject themselves to whatever booby-trap the repugnant man set up.

"Aw, you schoulda told me you were comin'. You coulda picked up a pizzcha." Murderface yawned and stretched on the couch, then sat up in panic. "Fuck, what time isch it?"

"One-thirty. Don't even fuckin' worry." Nathan crashed onto the ratty recliner, then braced himself when he felt it nearly give way. Murderface worked right after the final bell as a janitor at the school, so Nathan's one bit of consolation was that no matter how bad things got, there'd always be one other beneath him there. "I've fuckin' had it with that place. I think I'm just gonna quit. No point without football, anyway. I'm never gonna get into college, and I'm still gonna be workin' at Dimmu Burger whether or not I get my fucking diploma."

"You could alwaysch bargain with the prinschipal."

"He doesn't like me."

"Doeschn't even have to."

"What the fuck does it matter, though? Fuck it, I'm done. I can't take it anymore. I could be doing so much better."

"Like how?"

"Hey. . .if I gave you some money, would you go buy me beer?"

Murderface grinned. "Callin' in schick!"

The first three cans went down like water, but caught up very quickly to Nathan when he tossed his dozenth can. It took a couple attempts to stand. "Lemme use your phone."

"You know where it isch."

Nathan staggered out to the street with a dime. Murderface as good as owned the payphone since anytime someone tried to use it he got out his slingshot. It took Nathan a couple attempts to land the dime, then a lengthy pause with his head against the phone to remember his home number.

"Hello?"

"Hey mom."

"Nathan, where are you? I put your dinner in the fridge, and the school called again—"

"'Mnot comin' home tonight. Just so y'know."

"It's a school night, though. Are you drunk?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You're drunk."

"I'll see you tomorrow. . .maybe."

Murderface laid on the couch, one arm curled behind his head and the other hand firm on a beer. His eyes floated out of focus as he watched the C&N report unfurl before him. He burped. "I schinscherely feel that all thisch Middle East crap would be fixched a lot faschter if Busch just dropped a fuckin A bomb. Motherfuckin' Schaddam bomb. That'sch why I voted for him. He scheems schmart like that."

"You voted?"

"In a schensche. My grandma won't, scho I make her put one in for me. I schtill live in Jersey. . .technically."

Nathan still wasn't satisfied with his drunk once he finished all the beer Murderface grabbed. When the older man refused to go get more, Nathan sifted through his cupboards and fridge for whatever else he could find. Armed with tequila, he fell quiet and contemplative. "I think I'm gonna go."

"Go where? You're schmasched."

No amount of fight could convince Nathan otherwise. The highway turned into a game of concentration, with climbing speeds and complete lack of fear. And yet, without injury, he arrived at his destination. He let his bike lay on its side while he advanced to the precipice edge. Ass to a rock and hair blowing in the wind, he stared out over the water. Below, waves crashed against the cliff. Something about this place, even with all the lights of civilization behind him and the undying racket of vehicles, altered his anxiety to calmness.

He didn't like the way this world he lived in was set up. Go to school, play sports, go to college, get a job, get married, die. Why did anyone ever bother asking what he wanted to do with his life? Every acceptable option fell within that equation. What he wanted was to defy it, to live outside. . .but what did that mean? A large void, like a half-finished puzzle, formed before his eyes. He missed something, like how doctors probably felt until they discovered germs and bacteria.

As much as Nathan tried, he ignored from his first memory what dissatisfaction felt like. Maybe he was just spoiled, with nothing to fight for. Like his father, once upon a time. . .

Of course!  _Of course!_  The answer was in front of him the entire time! Excited, Nathan got back onto his bike. He needed to get home and tell his parents all about it. They needed to know his life wasn't a waste, that he'd found something better to do than carry a ball down a field.

Unfortunately, while that preoccupied Nathan, his grip on the road was greatly compromised. No fear occurred to him as he blacked out in the face of bright lights and a blaring horn, nor did he feel a thing when his velocity hit zero.

* * *

He swam through dreams, heading for the surface. Someone called him from above, and someone called him back from below. Both knew his name. Unsure where to go, Nathan let himself float. The closer he got to the surface, the more he hurt. Beyond the event horizon for turning back, he twitched an eye open.

"Nathan, oh god!" His mother's face blocked the bright lights poking needles in his vision. "You're okay!"

". . .Very lucky," a nearby doctor drawled, readjusting his glasses. "Only lingering damage is to your throat, vocal cords specifically."

"Hey, big guy!" Oscar, his father, squeezed his shoulder. Nathan opened his mouth to tell his parents what he'd meant to that night—however long ago it was—but as soon as he tried to speak he lapsed into painful coughing. Blood spattered his face, then the urge to vomit bubbled it up over his neck and shoulders.

"Oh god, what's happening?" Rose shrieked with hands up to her mouth.

The doctor called a nurse over, a needle went into Nathan's arm, and he soon went under again. This time, at least, he was aware that things happened beyond him. He floated in a dark abyss, water pressure failing to collapse him. The odd ding and voice echoed from an indiscernible direction. A voice floated through his mind, a separate entity, inviting him to stay in the water forever. As tempting, he couldn't listen. Even if he tried to slip away, he'd be snagged back by alarms.

He got pulled to the surface again. His mother still remained, but this time she let common sense come before raw relief. "Nathan, don't try to speak, honey. Just come back."

Grogginess made Nathan float for the longest hours of his life. All he wanted to do while answering the doctor's questions with taps of his finger against a metal support bar on his bed was sleep. They finally let him go back under in his own terms, and when Nathan woke up again, he felt the closest to rested he could ever remember.

His mother squeezed his hand. "Are you in pain at all? I could get them to up your dose."

Nathan shook his head. It only felt like he'd totalled his throat. Before he could open his mouth to ask what the hell happened, his mother shoved a notebook under his nose.

"If you need to talk, write it down. You're still not in good enough condition. We don't want a repeat of. . .well. . ."

The details of Nathan's revelation blurred, but he still remembered the big picture. He started to scratch it down, lost heart, and wrote something else instead.

_I'm sorry._

Rose teared up. "It's okay, so long as you're still alive. Mind you, if you  _ever_  do that again. . ."

Nathan laid there stoically as she leaned over to hug him. With that out of the way, he jotted down what he wanted to do with his life.

"One thing at a time, okay?" Rose replied. "I just got you back, I don't want to think about losing you again."

His father came in later with a coffee for his wife and water for his son. He still wore his work clothes. "How you feelin'?"

Nathan threw the notebook at him, but Oscar said the same thing. "Just concentrate on getting feeling better, and then we'll talk about it. Is this why you don't want to play football anymore? Because I already went through this hell in hopes that  _you_  wouldn't have to."

_I want to._

"You're sure about that? You have no idea what it's like, and the Middle East isn't looking much different than 'Nam. That's more than likely where you'd go, if you signed up."

_I don't care._

"His brain must be swimming in a pool of chemicals." Rose tsked and pushed some hair out of Nathan's face. "See what you think when you get out of here."

_I wanted to do it before this happened._

"You really don't, Nathan. You have no idea how dark the world becomes after you've done a tour. . .or two."

* * *

"Hey, buddy! How'sch the throat?"

"Sore." Nathan rubbed it as he spoke. The amount of cough lozenges he ate in attempt to make it feel better caused his stomach to sour and roll about. At least he got to sleep in his own bed now, instead of in a room with three older men constantly shitting their pants. "Probably gonna be quiet a while, the doctor said."

"You schound like a chain schmoker."

"Yeah. . .I guess. Got lucky, though. Pretty much the only thing that happened to me. Broke a couple toes."

Murderface sealed his joint. "Can't win'em all, I guessch. Do you remember anything about it?"

"No." As hard as Nathan tried, everything slowly trickled away. Even everything in the hospital bed. "I'm, uh. . .when I get better, though, I'm enlisting."

"In the army? Are you joking?"

"My dad was a Marine. Went to Thailand."

"You gonna be a jarhead?"

"Dunno. See what happens, I guess."

"Maybe I'll go too! Schoot Schaddam. . ." Murderface plunged a knife into his couch. "But you gotta be in schape and schit, don't you?"

"Yeah. Like really good shape."

"Aw, damn! Damn, damn, guessch I can't."

"Wouldn't call you a pussy if you didn't. Probably couldn't handle the heat, anyway, if you wound up in Kuwait or Saudi Arabia, or something."

"Fuck you! After living here? I could handle fucking  _anything_."

"Not gonna ask you to prove that."

"Fuck you,  _Tonto_. Look, I'm gonna level with ya. Whatever you're looking for, you're not gonna find it there. You're bescht to juscht schtay home."

Silence ended this conversation, just like with Nathan's mother. In truth, Nathan didn't want to go to war for the sake of war, nor did he care to fight for his country. He needed a shock, something to jolt him out of his monotonous life. Perhaps put it into perspective, make him grateful of the privilege he'd been born into.


	3. This Old House

"Tonight's the night! Can't you feel it?"

"For whet, exactly?"

"I dunno!" Tony stretched against the counter, cigarette dangling between his lips. "But there's something special gonna happen."

Pickles rolled joint after joint at the kitchen table. To him, it was just a regular night. The only difference from one of the parties they'd throw before they got signed was that now Snakes 'n' Barrels had thousands of dollars to throw away for favours. Pickles prepped the marijuana while Tony paced about, cocaine and alcohol already prepared. Bullets would bring the heroin, although a lot fewer people would use it.

"Wonder where Candy is." Tony dropped into a chair beside Pickles. "Said he was gonna be here at five."

"Whet're you so concerned about time, for? No one's probably gonna start rolling in 'til sunset, or so."

"I dunno. Just restless."

"Have a drink."

"Promised myself I wasn't gonna do nothin' until tonight. Kinda forgot what anticipation feels like."

Despite that, Tony wound up cracking a beer from the fridge. The two of them sitting in silence created a distortion in time. Pickles saw everything at once, as if it all burst forward from one singular point in his life: a bathtub perennially full of moonshine, Candy prancing across the stage toward his drum kit, sticks in one hand and the other held out toward the screaming audience, Bullets arguing for his right to wear round pink sunglasses, Tony squatted by a fire in the backyard roasting a hot dog and enjoying a cigarette moments before that call from the record label came. The house they all shared still stood—miraculously—and while Candy and Bullets branched out on a nearly nightly basis whenever they weren't on tour or recording, it remained the closest thing Pickles ever considered akin to home.

Despite that. . .Pickles harboured a secret.

"You wanna finish this? My fingers need a break. Heh." Pickles pushed the bag of weed and papers he'd cut over to the purple-haired bassist. With his own beer, the stairs creaked under his feet as he headed for the second floor. Living in such close quarters, Pickles was all too aware of his band members' private lives. He knew about Bullets' lingering hippy lifestyle, thanks to the single mother that raised him out west in Santa Barbara, about Tony's propensity to diddle women in their ass rather than the typical way, about Candy's fascination with homeless culture. The pictures he took on a regular basis were strewn throughout his room, distracting Pickles temporarily on his way to the drum kit. Funny the blond would find a hobby in this, considering that without Snakes 'n' Barrels, this might be the life Candy led.

Pickles traded out his beer for the sticks atop Candy's dresser. A weird mood like this always triggered a want to hammer his frustrations out on his first-choice instrument. However, with Tony directly beneath him and a promise forever ago to reinvent himself as something worth loving, the most he could manage was a series of half-hearted taps against the crash cymbal. It swivelled about and caught the sun filtering in through the window, reflecting it into Pickles' eyes. The small particles of dust floating about the room transformed to those forced from the ceiling beams at the last big concert they played. Collective hysteria from the crowd still echoed in Pickles' mind.

The fame, drugs, and women should make him happy. For as long as Pickles could remember, he dreamed about this every night before bed, as he walked to school, and when he should have paid attention in class. Music could never take a backseat, or fall into the background. No matter what, whether at a bar, watching a movie, or in his room, it ensnared him completely. So why did so many afternoons lend themselves to this familiar melancholy? Snakes 'n' Barrels ruled the Los Angeles scene, expanded their empire across California, and soon encompassed the entire country. If this wasn't a dream come true, then what  _would_  be?

"Bullets is here!" Tony announced from downstairs.

Beer reclaimed, Pickles headed down to say hello. He stumbled near the top and an arm shot out to stabilize him. "Dear  _Gahd_ , do you two always have to do this?"

Bullets held Tony's back to the wall while they pawed at one another and jokingly groaned and grunted. The odd laugh broke the smack of their lips. "You're just jealous."

"Yeeuh, of anyone who isn't seeing this right now." Pickles shielded his eyes as he passed through to the kitchen. "Seriously, stop."

"Y'hear that, Bullets? Pickles can't handle our love."

"Aw, why not?" While Pickles sought out another beer, Bullets pressed himself against his butt. "The band that sleeps together, stays together."

"Quit it!" Pickles jostled a rack of unstable bottles as he leapt forward. "Gahd, and I thought we voted against you wearin' that patchouli crap."

Bullets merely smiled and shrugged. "Cranky today?"

"Nah, just. . ." Pickles rubbed his forehead and ignored Tony's raucous laughter. "I'onno. On edge. It's not like you guys  _actually_  fuck, do you?"

They both scrunched their faces. "Ugh, not even a little."

"Just the tip." Bullets clapped Tony's shoulder on the way to the shower.

"Up  _your_  ass, maybe!"

As nice as seeing Bullets with any amount of energy was, Pickles needed something to spend his on. Maybe some booze and pot would help raze it down, and then a woman, later. No matter what, though, this heavy ball inside his chest refused to relent. The only thing that ever helped in the slightest was standing underneath hot spotlights with sweat running down his temples while the bass collided in waves against all sides of him.

"Looks like the party's started!" Candy called from the bottom of the driveway a while later, as Pickles sat in the porch's shade. A fur coat offset the blond's sneakers and tight jeans, confirming for his bandmate that they truly came from different worlds. While Pickles spent his youth up north in Wisconsin, Candy crawled out of white-trash Alabama to wind up on the west coast. Tony too, with desert in his blood, never had trouble with the weather here. "I hope you've got enough coke for tonight. I invited a friend and his band, and he says his singer's pretty heavy on it."

"Should be more than enough."

Candy lighting up a cigarette prompted Pickles to do the same. When the drummer shed his coat, sweat dotted his shoulders and darkened the underside of his green tank top. He shivered when a breeze came up.

"So what's up?"

Candy shrugged. "Not much, and that's a good thing. I'm sure diggin' this break."

"Tony said we got a meeting at the label on Thursday. He figures they're gonna threaten us about getting back into the studio soon."

"What's new?" Candy waved it off. "Have you and Tony been writing at all?"

"Trying. We've got a couple ideas, but not much yet. I'm enjoying the break too. Dunno 'bout him, so much." Increasingly, Tony spent more time in the living room with his bass and paper strewn across the coffee table. Whenever Pickles glanced at his work, he found most of it scratched out. "It'll get done, eventually. The label will get what they want. So will we."

"I'll toast to that." Candy reached for Pickles' beer, raised it in the air, then took a quick sip. "Give me another week and I'll be ready to get serious. I'll just have to come down from tonight."

Pickles grinned crookedly. "You been talkin' to Tony?"

"No, why?"

"You guys both got this idea that something big's gonna happen."

"Can't you feel it, though? It's like there's something in the air." Wind jostled Candy's hair. "Electricity, or static. Like a bomb's gonna fall over the city at sunrise and we only got tonight to live it up."

"Eh. Them Russians are done. I don't worry 'bout that no more."

"Whatever. You know what I mean. Tonight might be the best night of our lives. How could you know any different?"

"Maybe it's just another party, though."

"Aw, you're such a downer." Candy butt his cigarette out. "Is Bullets here yet?"

People began to arrive shortly after, as the sun hovered over the Pacific Ocean. They all greeted Pickles on their way in, some lingered for conversation, and the drug stockpile Tony, Bullets, and Pickles prepared transformed into the party's fuel. More bodies jam-packed into the dwelling, music blared from the stereo, and Pickles eventually managed to catch the bug. Sharing a bottle of hard liquor with Tony resulted in fond reminiscing, snorting some coke with Candy restored him to the top of the world, and smoking the smallest amount of heroin Bullets would let him get away with flat-lined his over-swollen personality. Time slowed for him as he stumbled to the bottom of the stairs, but that only existed within a small bubble. Beyond that, everything happened faster than he could keep track of. Tony darted about with lines on a mirror, presented with rolled up twenty dollar bills that the user was free to keep. Candy's friend indeed showed up in full clown attire, along with three others. Pickles' head swam enough for him to stumble. Maybe he needed to get out of here for a while.

With another beer and pack of cigarettes nicely tucked into his jeans, he ditched his shoes and climbed from his room up to the roof. The day long ago ended, leaving the streets to the lamps that perpetuated a bastardization of the sun. Pickles sat above the world that existed, at this hour. Beneath him, the bass still pounded away and people scurried about like ants. Candy and Tony were right, in a sense: something magnificent unfurled within these walls. But Pickles couldn't be a part of it. No matter how big the party, no matter how long, no matter how loud, he sat on the outskirts. It frustrated him to the point of throwing his unfinished beer onto the lawn below. This should be all he cared about. What else  _was_  there, beyond all he'd obtained?

"Piiiickles!" A blond head poked out his window. "You up here?"

"Yeeuh."

Candy crawled up beside Pickles, sniffed, and exhaled heavily toward the sky. "Wow. You're sure missing out."

Pickles shrugged.

"Talk to me, man. You've had this cloud hanging over you all night. What's up?"

"Just go back to the party and have fun. I'll figure it out on my own."

"Hard to have fun when your friend looks so down."

"Sorry, then."

"Dude, I'm fixin' to throw you off this roof if you don't start talkin'." Candy waited, then sighed and tugged on Pickles' elbow. "Come on, let's get outta here. Go for a walk, or some shit. Maybe that'll clear your head."

"I don't wanna drag you away from the party."

"My suggestion. C'mon, let's get some grub."

"You actually hungry?" Pickles' eyebrow jumped as Candy rubbed away some excess powder in the crease of his nostril.

"Not really, but I'll eat."

The dull thud of the music faded away behind them, bringing forth sirens deeper in East L.A. and their shoes smacking against the concrete. A dog barked, and then came a car alarm. Pickles grew used to the concrete jungle, but his senses heightened anyway as precaution. "So where did you want to go?"

"Anywhere, I don't care." Candy shoved his hands into his pockets. ". . .You haven't seemed happy for a while, Pickles."

"Not that there's anything to do about it."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I  _should_  be happy. This is all I've ever dreamed about. So why isn't it enough?"

"You're not going to quit the band, are you?"

Pickles shook his head immediately. "You guys are. . .you're everything to me. I dunno what I'd do any different, if not this."

"Tony and Bullets are scared you will. They've noticed, too."

"I won't. There's nowhere else for me to go."

"That's not exactly consolation."

"It's not that I don't like it with you guys, makin' music and all. I love it. But there's. . .something missing."

"Like what?"

"I'll let you know when I figure it out." They wound up at Dimmu Burger, the only place open for the next mile. Feeling better that Candy didn't freak out like Tony would, Pickles managed to summon an appetite. Maybe this wasn't so bad, or at least didn't affect his bandmates so strongly. "I think. . ."

Candy took a huge bite from his burger. "Hm?"

"It all seems so fake, y'know? I mean, that's Hollywood, but even  _this_. Why d'we get on stage and play songs about partying? Why do Bullets and Tony make out whenever they see each other? What the hell are we trying to say, Candy? Is this what we're all about? What if there's more, and we're missing it? What if we're us, sittin' here, and life is that party, back at the house?"

"It's all about having fun, letting go, forgetting who you are."

"But there's a point where that's gotta end, and somethin' else begins. That's life. . .right?"

"In reality, yes. But in the music, you can live like that forever. The fans and audience, too."

"I get that. It makes sense and all, but it's got me stuck. Am I thinking too much?"

"Probably." Candy reached for a napkin. "And I get what you're saying too. But I'm concerned what it might lead to. Would you quit the band if this all didn't go away?"

"You got that on the brain, huh?"

"Would you answer honestly if I told you none of us have the right to hold you here? Or that I want you to feel fulfilled by whatever you do with yourself?"

"Is that actually what you think?"

"Sure. I respect you, and I hate seeing you miserable."

Pickles pressed his lips together in thought. "I dunno. This comes and goes, so sometimes I fuckin' love this band, and then I feel like I need more. Maybe I just gotta. . .aim higher with the writing. Shit, after the last record, we got a lot to top anyway. I don't mean this to be gay or whatever, but I really do love you guys. Snakes 'n' Barrels is my entire world."

"This band would be nothing without you. Well, nothing like what we are, anyway. I don't wanna seem like I'm guilting you, or anything. You got spunk, Pickles. That counts for something. Only you know what. Maybe one day you'll figure it out and everything'll make sense, and that'll be where you need to be. We might fit you now, but you shouldn't stay static just to make us happy."

Simply feeling understood elevated Pickles' mood. Laughter came easier on the way home, and just like that, Pickles fell back into himself. He couldn't wait to get back, to get a couple lines off Tony and experience the party meant to drive them into the future. By the time it ended, Pickles should reasonably expect to step outside and see a rare winter snow.

"Guys! Guys!" Tony and Bullets ran down the street toward them, grins wide and bright. "Guess what, guess what!"

"Rockso took off his jumpsuit—and he ran down the street—and the cops came. . ." Tony managed between breaths. "Took him off—and Bink Bonk. . ."

Pickles laughed and jumped onto Tony's back. "Lemme get a piggy ride!"

Candy did the same to Bullets, then declared a race to the house. Tony did his best to keep up to the rhythm guitarist's long strides, but Pickles lagged behind no matter how hard he kicked his mule. An eruption of light and explosion of sound from ahead landed Pickles on his back without breath, confused as to what the hell could level him so fast. Had he just been shot?

"What the  _fuck?_ " Tony struggled to his feet, then gasped. "Fuck, fuck, the  _house!_ "

Pickles remained on the ground, diaphragm tight, but he could see the smoke curling upward into the sky. More sirens, coming closer. People screaming, panicking, Bullets' fuzzy head blocking everything out as he frantically tried to make sure he was okay. . .

"Oh my god, our fucking instruments, our  _work_. . ." Tony danced on the spot, rubbing his face before dropping down to the pavement. Candy stared with a slack jaw, recoiling whenever another person came out of the fire in the arms of the uniformed city workers. Bullets helped Pickles over to where the two of them stood. "Look at this shit, man. All our stuff. . ."

"You okay?" Bullets asked. "Gettin' your breath back?"

"Slowly." Pickles gazed at the fire. "What happened?"

"We just lost  _everything_." Tony sat on the sidewalk, fingers in his hair. To add insult to injury, ash rained down around them. A fragment of Tony's notes, a scratched out portion, landed on the road beside them.

"Hey, we'll be okay. We'll find somewhere else to go, and all that stuff is just stuff." Bullets rested a hand on Tony's shoulder. He didn't exactly sound like he believed it, though.

And there was the cap on the evening. A firefighter declared the fire out just as the sun came up, and none of the band had yet to move from their position across the street from their former home. Ash not only fluttered down, but stained them. Tony managed to stand again, though had to lean on Bullets. To contrast their horror, Pickles remained calm. For all the bodies that came out in bags, nearly as many as went in earlier, he felt himself move closer to understanding the gap in his life. As morbid a time for it to come, maybe starting over from the ground up wasn't so bad a thing after all.


	4. Into the Water

Through all the mental preparation Charles Offdensen engaged in before entering a war zone, he failed to consider the desert heat. Although late February cooled the Persian Gulf, it was still a fifteen degree jump from Langley, Virginia. Despite that, he wished for one of his regular work suits, just for comfort's sake. Riding a helicopter from Kuwait City over to the southernmost point of Iraq with a battle-worn Sergeant made him painfully aware he didn't belong here. Wearing chocolate chip fatigues in order to blend in didn't help.

He maintained a straight face and square shoulders when his boots hit the sand. Now that Kuwait was cleared of Iraqi troops and the U.S. advanced thus far into enemy territory, soldiers walked around with their guns at ease. Charles himself carried a pistol, but it didn't compare to the automatic rifles more practical for this corner of the world.

Sergeant Fenriz led him to a tented area. "I'll fetch Private Explosion."

Charles took a seat at one end of the table, mentally going over everything he knew thus far. Any attempt to move ships out of the Gulf resulted in freak accidents, triangulated to one spot about fifteen miles south of where he now sat. A team dove below to figure out what happened, and only one soldier came back. Nathan Explosion, barely nineteen, landed in Saudi Arabia in September. Born and raised in Port New Ritchey, Florida, he was the single son of a Vietnam vet and homemaker. Hesitantly marked as a high-functioning autistic, he somehow managed to scrape through public school without that label. Excelled at biology, sports, and keeping his cool in this God-forsaken place. Dominantly a kinaesthetic learner. Quietly spoken, due to combined introverted personality and a motorcycle accident about a year ago that permanently damaged his vocal cords.

. . .Yet enormous. He crouched and squeezed in sideways past the curtain. His craggy, solemn face told a different story from his eyes, which only hinted at apathy. . .make that boredom. He took the only other available seat and nodded in greeting.

"Private, this is Special Agent Offdensen. He's here to talk to you about what happened."

"I already told you everything." 'Damaged' didn't even begin to describe how Nathan's voice sounded.

"And now the CIA wants to hear it."

Nathan stared at Charles, who allowed his uncertainty to manifest solely as an adjustment to his glasses. "Not much to tell. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary."

"Let's start with the ships."

"USS Anvil sprung a fast-acting leak and sunk within three hours. USS Krokus exploded, or something. The Vitus had some kind of malfunction. I dunno. Ships aren't my thing. Why would you ask _me_  about that?"

"What about the diving expedition, then? You went on that, right? May I ask why?"

"Good swimmer, I guess." With the amount of upper body strength Nathan boasted, he'd  _have_  to be. "We just volunteered. I dive with my dad occasionally, so I had the experience."

"And what happened down there, to the rest of them?"

Nathan shrugged. "A couple freaked out. Wouldn't calm down, so they used up the rest of their oxygen. Another guy just disappeared. Got separated. The last guy wouldn't go back through the cave. Opted to go down the tunnel, instead."

"What cave?"

"There was one underwater, close to where the Anvil settled. We thought to secure it, just in case there were some enemies hiding in there, but we found it empty. A tunnel did lead back into Iraq, though."

"And even though it could be in use, you let your fellow Private go?"

"We could tell no one's been down there for a very long time."

"Ah. And he still wanted to try his chances?"

"It wasn't an easy cave to get into."

"So you returned all by yourself."

"Yes."

"Humour me, Private. I'm a diver, myself. If I asked to see the cave, would you take me?"

Nathan shrugged. "Sure. But it's pitch black, and pretty tight in places. Would almost be better to get it exploded open, or something."

"I'd rather not wait."

"Whatever you want, I guess."

After a conversation with his CO, Nathan led Charles to shore. They rode to a larger ship about 300 feet off the bay, then transferred over to a different boat. While they travelled south through the gulf, a couple other men helped them into their suits.

A solid six months passed since Charles' last vacation, so he needed a reminder lesson on how to handle the depths. Nathan would stay ahead of him and trail string back to the boat. Unlike the last time he went down, he would be fixed with a light. Charles did his best not to imagine being without. How could Nathan remark so nonchalantly that the other Private kept the only one between them, so that he could more easily maneuver the tunnel?

He couldn't lose his nerve before even getting into the water. Although, he definitely regretted his decision to volunteer. No chance to turn back now, lest he lose all credibility in the eyes of these soldiers. He sought any mirrored anxiety in Nathan, but the kid still appeared bored while he waited for Charles' safety debriefing to end. The issued dagger—just in case they ran into some sort of trouble—spent more time out than in its case attached to Nathan's belt.

"Ready?"

Charles nodded, suddenly feeling sick. Regardless, he followed Nathan down the ladder off the side and took the last breath of fresh air he'd get for a while. The boat's propellor whirred and squealed beneath the surface, fading away along with natural light. Despite Nathan's leisurely pace, Charles busted his ass to keep up. As silence pressed in from all around, Charles kept his focus. His suit withstood a major brunt of the water's weight, but he still felt it in his mind.

Pure darkness, or so he thought. Nathan's light brushed a pole of some sort, then panned to reveal a ghost of the USS Anvil, situated in the Gulf's sandy depths. They carried on past, headed for the port side. Charles never questioned until now how Nathan and the rest of the diving team would know to look beyond the ship, but along with a strange interruption in the current there opened a chasm ahead. For just a few seconds, as they swam underneath the cliff lip hiding this place from being seen at any other angle, Charles closed his eyes. The only thing worse than being separated from the surface by a couple hundred feet of water was an impenetrable layer of rock on top of it.

Charles' light flickered, then died. He steadied himself with a hand against the ceiling while he tried to bring it back to life. Nathan came back to offer a hand, but it was a futile effort.

Nathan pointed back where they'd come from.  _Back to surface?_

Charles shook his head. He'd never come back down if he got to the boat.

Nathan shrugged, turned back inward, and waved at Charles to keep following him. The cave's maw shrunk, the further in they swam. Shadows retreated before Nathan's light as though tails and legs alike belonging to thus far unknown species fled to the rocks. Charles minded the abyss behind him, as well as that Nathan only checked to see he still followed if he left a sufficient gap between tugs on the rope. Besides that sweep of light and ache in the back of his eyes, Charles might as well be a floating ball of consciousness with no body to speak of.

One positive thing about Nathan being such a large person was that where he found a tight fit Charles passed through without qualm. He couldn't believe that Nathan so easily sucked himself in and squeezed between rocks. Charles himself, when all his mental energy didn't go toward making sure he didn't compromise his equipment, wondered how far they'd come since the surface and how far they had yet to go. Not since university did he experience a panic attack, and he wasn't going to start again now. He'd trained himself to stay cool, forget his mortality, and take things as they come. A cave wasn't going to compromise that.

Finally, their path tilted upward and widened again. A rippling fabric appeared before Nathan's light, which Charles rightly assumed as the surface. Gravity's last pull upward and his head breaking came with a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. Still air and Nathan's light unable to touch any wall, ceiling, or rock structure hinted at the size of this place.

"All right?" According to Nathan's tone, they might have just taken the short trek from the helicopter to the tent. Oh, how Charles wished he could've stayed back there.

They kept their direction, heading further north. Eventually, Charles' flippers grazed rock and shore lit up before Nathan. He crawled out, adrenaline having weakened his limbs. Nathan already started disassembling his gear. "Need some help?"

"No, thank you. I'll manage."

Stripped down to his wet suit and footwear, Charles squinted to investigate their surroundings. His visual prescription was pretty mild at 20/50, so he didn't worry about leaving his glasses in the boat. No side of his body cooled, so they couldn't be close to the tunnel. "How far did you explore?"

"Pretty far. I think I remember where the tunnel is."

Nathan tied their rope leading back through the water to a stalagmite, gleaming silver line reminding Charles that he would have to face that all over again. He understood now why Nathan's fellow soldier refused to go back that way. In fact, if there hadn't been a prior expedition with such casualties, Charles too would rather attempt the tunnel. Even with the possibility he'd wind up in front of Saddam Hussein himself.

"There. We should be good." Nathan tied a second rope to hold onto. "Won't get lost in here."

"Any idea how big it is?"

"Not really. Lots of tunnels once we get out of here, but we only really followed the one with the draft."

As they headed in that direction, Charles reminded himself of the purpose for his visit. He needed to find a reason behind the sunken and damaged ships and if that turned out to be a physical threat, he needed to take measures to neutralize it. True, he practiced various forms of martial arts from a very young age—primarily Budo—but his body would be useless against guns. He entertained the possibility that a passion for the supernatural and particular interest in the Bermuda Triangle influenced his superior more than common sense in choosing him for this case. Charles could defend himself with a weapon as well, but that training and subsequent practice became useless down here.

"Do you think we'll find your fellow Private?"

"Hm. Maybe. Not much we could do about it, besides tell Fenriz where he wound up."

"You'd leave him down here?"

"I wasn't given orders to take him back or to bury him. Just to accompany you."

Very literal sense of direction. It made complete sense to Charles that they should recover the body if they had the means. . .but there lay the problem. Dragging a corpse out the way they came in wasn't practical.

Just as Charles feared, a strong repugnant smell teased his nostrils. Nathan merely chuckled, something that threw Charles off. "What's so funny?"

"Kinda reminds me of a pal I got back home."

". . .I see."

It only grew stronger, the further they went. Charles breathed only through his mouth, then covered the lower part of his face when he started to taste it. Completely unfazed, Nathan showed mercy when Charles' eyes watered by stopping. "I think this is about as far as we got before."

"That Private can't have made it too much further. It smells like he's right here."

"Dunno. But I'm not getting any closer. Don't need to, to figure out what happened and where he is."

How did somebody sound so bored about something so disturbing? Had Nathan seen  _that_  much in the course of duty? But such a difference separated him from the others, who couldn't maintain eye contact because they needed to constantly scan their surroundings. "Is there anything else of interest down here? If not, I'm prepared to rule out anything to do with this cave as a possible cause."

"Sort of, I guess. Not that it could have anything to do with this."

"What is it?"

"Paintings."

"Paintings," Charles repeated, deadpan. "Ancient cave paintings, you mean? From when?  _Who?_ "

Nathan shrugged and led on. They branched off into another tunnel and shortly came upon a rounded dead end. Charles saw nothing special about the place until Nathan got close to the wall and brushed his fingers against barely visible etches. "See? It's a whale."

Back in his undergraduate days at NYU, Charles took an art history class as elective. His professor very briefly covered cave paintings, and only now did Charles wish he'd paid closer attention. "Judging by the age, I'd say it must belong to Mesopotamia. More accurately Sumer, since it was the southernmost region."

"How do you know that shit?"

"I have to know a lot, for my job. This, I'm just hazarding a guess at, based on my limited knowledge of ancient civilizations." Charles trailed his fingers along the etched in water ripples. "Can you shine your light this way? There's more."

The ripples transformed to mountains, before which men riding horses raised their swords to war. Charles followed along to their front lines and squinted at a mass of either dust or clouds. A floating figure in armour and cape towered over them. Nathan didn't need request to direct his light further up, revealing a beard, elongated mouth, and sword.

"Brutal," he commented. "What do you think it is?"

"Not sure. Possibly some sort of myth, or perhaps a demigod. I'm not familiar enough with Mesopotamian culture to say."

Nathan's light panned away. More paintings existed, but they were too high to see.

"Although interesting, I can't surmise a reason why this would bring down a ship when never before has it happened in the Persian Gulf. I believe this cave can be out-ruled with complete confidence. Perhaps the Anvil, Krokus, and Vitus are the results of a strange coincidence."

"Aren't all FBI agents supposed to say that?"

"The CIA, Private. We are quite independent and objective within the government, so what business would I have keeping any knowledge I obtained here from you?"

Nathan shrugged. "Ready to get out of here, then?"

"Lead the way."

Charles dreaded going back through the water, but with a basic idea of how long he'd be underwater and eagerness to be back underway, the USS Anvil appeared again relatively quickly. Sunlight cut through the depths like a sunrise, eventually blinding him when they broached close to the boat they rode out in. He stalled in swimming back so that he could clench his aching eyes shut and allow his rods and cones to gradually readjust. Getting his glasses back and being able to shed the heavy oxygen tanks was the best thing that happened to him all day.

"Got what you need?" Fenriz asked when they reached shore.

"I've seen no reason why any of the accidents or deaths could be connected or otherwise perpetrated by an enemy. Everything seems in order for natural cause."

"So you believe we should be able to deploy our ships?"

"I do, although I recommend waiting to hear from a military official. I will begin my report as soon as I board back for the U.S., so as to hopefully expedite getting you and your men home.

"Goodbye, Private." Charles extended a hand toward Nathan. "And thank you once again for your assistance. It wasn't an experience I'll soon forget."

Charles underestimated Sergeant Fenriz's urgency in getting out of the Gulf, and mistook him for a rational man. While nothing happened as Charles' helicopter flew back to Kuwait City and he got into a car bound for the airport, Fenriz took Charles' speculation to his commanding officer, and as Charles flew over the Mediterranean, the USS Buffalo jerked into motion on its departure from the Kuwaiti shoreline. However, in their haste, no one noticed the leak in the fuel tank, marking her wake. Charles missed news of the resulting explosion, destroying the entire fleet and killing multiple soldiers, by mere minutes as he changed flights in Paris. A muddled report beat him across the Atlantic and circulated through government offices and CIA headquarters. As Charles stepped off the plane in D.C., jetlagged, he couldn't in the least understand why his superior personally met him there with dismissal papers.


	5. Haven

When a warm, beautiful Norwegian spring opened the doors of Lillehammer's residents and ushered them into the streets, a young boy named Toki Wartooth took advantage of that.

He plucked away at his guitar strings, regurgitating the melodies he rearranged in order to obscure the true nature of his favourite music. His parents and their church enjoyed his playing, but they didn't know they listened to stripped down, rebuilt metal. The songs he heard while hiding outside bars and record stores transformed to campy instrumentals worshipping their Lord.

Iron Maiden's Powerslave had people patting their hips and tossing coins into the tin can Toki set out. Every jingle of change widened Toki's smile. Making money this way was murky by the Wartooth-led Church, but Toki didn't worry about getting busted. His parents nor any other member of their congregation ever came this far into town, and even if they did, Toki could plead ignorance. Really, compared to what he planned to do with the money, this wasn't a big deal at all.

The crowd he drew maintained safe distance, all but someone in the periphery of his vision. As his concentration lessened, the awareness of being closely watched could no longer be ignored. Toki looked over as he finished the song and his cheeks flushed instantly with heat.

Since Toki didn't lead into the next song, most of the crowd politely clapped and moved on. The tall blond, guitar swung over his shoulder and hands in his pocket, approached. Skwisgaar Skwigelf, here! Not that it should surprise Toki, since Fuckface Academy was based out of Lillehammer.

"You play well." His eyes narrowed in apprehension. "I'm Skwisgaar. What's your name?"

"T-Toki," he stammered.

As if that cured Skwisgaar's uncertainty, the older boy's blue eyes returned to full size. "You speak."

Toki blinked.

". . .Sort of." Skwisgaar scratched the back of his head. "Anyway, I was just wondering if you make good money doing that."

"A decent bit, I guess."

"Any chance I can borrow your guitar for a little bit?"

"Ja, sure!" Toki jumped up, shoved the guitar into Skwisgaar's hands, and then emptied the tin into his jacket pockets. He sat down next to Skwisgaar, unable to believe his luck. His eyes widened as the blond effortlessly began to play.

"I can always hear the music, so it's easy to forget that others don't. That's why I'm not playing my own. No amps in the street." Skwisgaar jerked his head toward the Gibson Explorer Toki's ears were well-acquainted with. "I've never played a grandpa guitar in my whole life."

"How can it be a grandpa guitar? I'm not a grandpa."

"Just the downside of living where there's no electricity, I guess."

How did Skwisgaar know that Toki didn't have power out where he lived? Maybe the guitar really did give him away. Toki wallowed in shame, for what if passers-by looked at him like some weirdo? "Your guitar is pretty cool. It must have cost a lot."

"Nah."

"Probably not enough to matter. You're in a band, so you must make  _krillions_  of money."

Skwisgaar chuckled. "It's enough. But I didn't pay for this. I found it."

"No way! Like out in the woods?"

". . .Actually, ja."

Toki beamed. "I'd have to be a dumb little kid not to know who you are, right? That's why I'm here, today. I'm making money for a bus ticket and a festival ticket, and then I'm going to come see you play next week."

The Scandinavian Open Air Metal Show Extravapalooza was all Toki could think about ever since he first saw a poster advertising it outside the record shop. His yearning to go only heightened when he learned that one of his favourite bands—Skwisgaar's—was headlining. He moped around for a couple months in constant state of identity crisis before deciding that  _no_ , his church would not stop him from going to Göteburg. No matter how last-minute, he would make the money he needed and head out. Skwisgaar evidently approved of this plan, judging by his smug smile and expanded chest.

"I should have known I didn't have to introduce myself to a local metalhead."

"So since you're in a band and you're so famous, how come you're here making money? Shouldn't you have enough to buy a million of anything you could ever want?"

"I do. . ." Skwisgaar's stomach growled as he trailed off. "but I left my wallet back home."

"Shucks."

"Ja. You know what it's like when you have a billion things on the go. I'd forget my head, and so on."

Toki's back developed an itch, reminding him of the appropriate punishment for such a thing. "That's not good."

Skwisgaar's fingers flew over the frets, drawing the crowd back in. After only a couple songs, he eyed the tin and abruptly stopped playing. "That should be enough. Thanks, Toki. See you next week, if you make it out."

Toki gaped in awe after the guitarist, then scrambled to gather his things. He failed to notice that the Swede shoved a couple bills into the wallet he supposedly didn't have. Coins jingling in Toki's pocket, he fell in step beside Skwisgaar. "Hi."

". . .Hi," Skwisgaar reluctantly replied. "You, uh, going to follow me, are you?"

Toki laughed. "Do you live here? But you're from Sweden, right? Are you from Stockholm? It's a pretty big place, I hear."

"Nej, I am from a small place outside of Göteburg."

"I'm the same, except mine's close to here! What's the name of  _your_  village?"

"Jonesered."

"We call ours the Haven."

Skwisgaar turned into a diner, where Toki dropped down on the other side of a booth. He couldn't so easily let his opportunity to hang out with such a cool guy end. Skwisgaar wasn't very talkative unless prompted, but that was okay. Toki could be shy too. Before even looking at the menu, Skwisgaar swung his guitar around to his lap and resumed what he'd done on the street.

Toki admired his fingers' clean speed, watching with his elbows on the table. "How do you play so fast?"

"Practice. I've been playing for a long time."

"I hope someday I'll be as good as you. Then maybe I'll be in a band too. Then we could tour together! Wouldn't that be the coolest?"

"I think by then I'd be in such a famous band that we wouldn't even have an opening act."

"Wowee. Maybe." It didn't hurt to dream, though. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"I'm thirteen and a half."

"Oh yeah."

"I've been playing since I was seven. My dad gave me my guitar and now I play for the people in my church. They don't know they're listening to metal, though. Isn't that funny?"

Skwisgaar did indeed laugh. "You can't play metal on a grandpa's guitar."

"Ja, I can. I don't have any other choice."

"Metal is a demanding lady, little Toki. She won't be played on just  _anything_."

"Funny, I always thought metal would be a big hairy guy riding a motorbike."

The blond laughed again. "You're funny. I like you."

The menu trembled in Toki's grip. This afternoon turned into so much more than he could ever imagine. He only ever dreamed of being in the crowd when Skwisgaar played, and now he not only met him but they sat in a restaurant together. For someone with no friends beyond a couple tamed animals, Skwisgaar's overwhelming presence affected the young boy's nerves. He couldn't believe that someone so famous took an interest in him.

"So how're you getting to the festival?" Skwisgaar asked after ordering food.

"I'm just gonna take the bus. Is it far?"

"Couple hours. Not a bad trip. Where're you staying?"

"Staying? Um. . ."

"You haven't thought that far ahead, yet?"

No, he hadn't. Toki couldn't feel more stupid. "Guess I'll just make more money and find a hotel, or something."

"Is anyone going with you? Have you been to the city before?"

"Not even to Oslo," Toki quietly admitted.

"Toki, how are you going to get to Göteburg and back if you have no idea what you're doing?"

"I—I don't know. . ." Who was Toki kidding? He could never go to the festival. Why did he ever bother to dream for anything? He'd be stuck in Lillehammer and the Haven forever.

Across the table, Skwisgaar's fingers slowed and he pursed his lips. "Look, I'll level with you. If it's that important to you. . .so long as you promise to stay quiet. . .I'll see if Tallak will let you ride there with us."

"Really?"

"I've never seen someone look so sad. Just don't make a big deal out of it."

Toki spent his entire walk home later convincing himself that his afternoon was merely a daydream out of control. Not only was he going to the festival, but he would pal around with Skwisgaar! Maybe they'd hang out there, too! Maybe Toki would find his own band and he could. . .

Wait, he couldn't do a damn thing. His parents would forbid it and subject him to the vow of silence toward anyone outside of the church. And then he would never be let in. How bad would that be, though? Did Toki want to live like this for the rest of his life? He didn't even know what a toilet was, until a shopkeeper explained it after he asked for access to his earth closet. There was such a huge world beyond here. Could he really die peacefully knowing he didn't see as much of it as humanly possible?

Smoke curling lazily toward the sky marked the Haven before Toki came over the hill and was able to see the fifteen or so houses in its entirety. He stopped briefly at the stream for a drink of water and to bury his money with the rest of his earnings under the largest tree's roots. While gathering a couple buckets of water, he slung his guitar in the same manner as Skwisgaar and commenced his old mantra of mind over matter.

"Am I too late to help with dinner, Mama?"

"I can manage. Why don't you wash up and fetch your father?"

Toki put some water on to boil and ran out the door for the hill beneath Reverend Aslaug's childhood home. His father found many nooks and crannies in which to pray, and recently this was where he could best hear the voice of their god. In order to avoid interrupting, Toki quietly dropped to his knees beside the man and said a few words of his own inside his mind. He listened carefully for any residual whisper from Aslaug's internal conversation, but his father was the Reverend for a reason. No one else was as sensitive to such a divine voice.

"Amen," Aslaug whispered under his breath. Toki grinned and braced himself from falling over when his father ruffled his hair. "I should figure it was you. No one else is so respectful."

"I know better," Toki boasted. He'd been berated too many times for bothering his father's prayer. "Mama wanted me to tell you dinner is just about ready."

Aslaug folded his hands together while Toki ambled along beside him. "So what did you do today, my little son?"

"Did my chores, went to town, practiced my guitar. . ."

"Have you written any new songs lately?"

"I've been working on one. Maybe I can show you after dinner?"

"I would enjoy that."

Anya had removed the pot of boiling water from the wood stove, but it still needed to be diluted with more from the stream to cool it. Toki sighed with a warm cloth against his face and brought one to his father.

In a few weeks, it would warm up enough for Toki to help his parents plant the garden. Their pantry showed signs of necessity, since potatoes, carrots, radishes, onions, and canned beets neared dissipation. Toki didn't much care for onions, so he got his out of the way first after Aslaug spoke a few more words of gratitude. His deer steak went down much easier. He cleared the table once his mother put her fork down and cleaned the kitchen up while his parents spoke in hushed voices in the family room. They stopped suddenly when Toki came into the room with his guitar.

"Am I okay to play?" he asked. Light from the lanterns caused deep etches in Anya and Aslaug's faces, reminding Toki how old his parents were. They nodded and sat beside one another, Anya closing her eyes in preparation to listen and Aslaug giving his son an encouraging smile. The latest song Toki picked up was Mercyful Fate's  _Into the Coven_. Sometimes Toki believed he found a song his parents might enjoy, but he long ago decided never to tell them about his musical tastes. He didn't want them to look further into it and discover the extent of his obsession. So instead he delivered metal the way they liked it: slowed down, shifted to major key, and with a brief explanation of which sermon or part of scripture inspired it.

"Wonderful, Toki," Aslaug complimented him after the last note died. "Won't you play more? It's that sort of night, I believe."

Toki agreed willingly and delved into a few other favourites, like Bathory's  _Blood Fire Death_ , Megadeth's  _Hangar 18_ , and Iron Maiden's  _Gangland_. Fragments of the non-sensical English passed through his mind, the translations which he barely knew. The music part of a song was all that really mattered to Toki. Something in it hit him square in the chest and made him feel things much more acutely. Despite the doomy-gloomy sound of some songs, it gave him an itchy type of hope. It didn't matter so much then that he was the only child in the village, and the youngest by over thirty years. He wasn't really alone, like this. Lots of other people listened to the same things, maybe at the same time, and even though they didn't know him by name, they knew him by heart. Like Skwisgaar.

". . .And thank you for giving me such a gifted, obedient son. Amen," Anya finished off come bedtime. She got off her knees along with Toki and pet his hair once he'd curled up underneath the covers. "Good night and sleep well."

"You too, Mama." Toki closed his eyes and waited for his mother to leave the room. When he heard her settle in bed with Aslaug, Toki rolled onto his back and pressed his hands together again. "I have more that I'm grateful for. Thank you for letting me meet Skwisgaar Skwigelf. I take it as a sign that it's something you want, because I don't think it would have happened otherwise. Same goes for the festival, but I don't think my Mama and Papa would understand, so we'll keep that to ourselves for now. I'll keep you in my heart when I go to Göteburg. Thank you more than all I could give, Lucifer."


	6. Gothenburg

William Murderface learned from a very young age that if he ever wanted something, he needed to manipulate those around him. As a baby and child, that meant throwing a tantrum of epic proportions until his grandmother conceded either to whatever treat he wanted or a regret-inducing spanking. His grandfather was even easier, since he took pity upon the orphaned boy. Unfortunately, when the man suffered a massive stroke, Murderface needed to up his game.

When it came to his teenage years, he used his grotesque appearance to his advantage. No one ever wanted to fuck with him, which meant kids mostly left him alone in school and no teacher ever really tried to provide any education outside of his interests. If not for this, he would've done like Nathan and just quit school, rather than float through.

He realized when his grandmother first brought up the idea of leaving Newark that his influence on her had ended. Granted, Murderface strained her nerves since he still lived at home and hosted other such degenerates to drink beer and play music in her basement. She made it very clear that Murderface could stay in New Jersey if he chose, but she would no longer put off her well-deserved retirement so that he could mess around. Murderface lacked any sort of life skill, which prompted him to choose at the last minute that he too would move, even if he couldn't live with his grandparents anymore.

He manipulated his way into a job by amping up his resume and manipulated the quarterback of the school's football team to be his friend. And now that Nathan returned from the Middle East, Murderface worked on manipulating him to be in his band.

"I just don't see myself wearing a confederate soldier uniform. Ever." Nathan flipped through the safety pamphlet on the plane they boarded. He'd grown his hair longer and fit the physical description of someone fronting a listen-worthy band, but he just wouldn't budge. "I'm done with all that shit."

"Juscht think about it, though. You've been to war, you know what it'sch all about. I can't write schongsch about schomething I've never done!"

"You can't write songs anyway."

"And that'sch why  _you_  would write the schongsch."

"Wow, Murderface. Sounds like a good deal. Join your band and do everything for you. Awesome."

"Hey, I play the bassch!"

"Barely."

"I can play it with my hog. How  _dare_  you." Murderface crossed his arms and sunk as far in his seat as the gut-digging seatbelt would allow. He'd learned the trick out of boredom during Nathan's absence, and the asshole couldn't even  _pretend_  to be amazed when showed. "You'll probably change your mind once we get to the feschtival."

"I've already made it very clear that this will do nothing to change my mind. The only reason I'm going is to check it out." Nathan peered at the inside of the barf bag. "Where  _is_  Gothenburg, anyway?"

"Schweden. I think that'sch part of Canada, right? They schpeak French. Or Schpanish, I don't know."

"That's Quebec. . .I think."

"Maybe that'sch what I'm thinking of. Fucking expenschive to get there, anyway. Muscht be nearly to the North Pole."

"Goddamn it, Murderface. Wish you would've said something. I'd've packed a coat."

"Not my fault you didn't aschk 'til now! What?" Murderface leaned past Nathan to look at a woman with a crying baby. "Mind your own buschinessch, lady!"

The first leg of the trip bumped them up to Atlanta, where they sat around while waiting to fly out to Amsterdam. Murderface alternated between watching stupid people going about their stupid days and craning his head to peer in Nathan's notebook. Unfortunately, between his chicken scratch, obscuring hair, and being turned away, Murderface couldn't make anything out. Just more drawings of some little cartoon Nathan invented in high school named Facebones.

When Nathan wandered away to find something to eat, Murderface snatched the notebook from his bag and quickly flipped through it. Nathan's behaviour as of late birthed a suspicion in him and he needed to know the truth. Ever since Nathan finished his duty, he buried his nose constantly in writing. He shared some of the songs with Murderface, who couldn't believe his buddy's imagination sometimes. He also refused to believe that Nathan only filed his ideas away.

"Hey, Murderface!" Nathan hunched his shoulders and clenched his hands into fists when he came back, scowling. "I just looked at a map. Sweden isn't in Canada. It's in fucking  _Europe_. And it's even further north!"

Murderface couldn't care less. "Who'sch Regurgitated and Re-Eaten?"

"My band. Why?"

"I knew it! I  _knew_  you were in a band—!"

"Who fucking cares about that, right now? If I knew we were going across the fucking ocean, I wouldn't have bothered to come."

"You can go home, if you like! I refusche to pay for a liar to go to a feschtival with me! I thought we were palsch!"

"Do you see now why I never told you? I knew you'd just turn into a whiny fucking dildo about it." Nathan snatched his notebook from Murderface. "And if you ever look at my shit again without my express permission I will murder you."

"Thisch isch juscht great!" Murderface kept on. "I could've brought Lawrencshe, but inschtead I'm schtuck with a big fat liar like you!"

"Watch who you're calling fat, fatty."

With that, silence descended like a curtain between them. Murderface steamed and stewed throughout the entire boarding process, and couldn't even fall asleep once they flew through a dark sky over the Atlantic. How could Nathan lie so blatantly, and then pile so many insults on top of it? Murderface shouldn't have even  _thought_  about the money gone to waste by leaving Nathan in Atlanta. Who cared about the festival ticket, or his plane tickets? He should've taught that asshole a fucking lesson. His friendship wasn't something to be played with, and he deserved honesty. If Nathan wanted to be a prick about not playing together in a band, then Murderface wanted the opportunity to fight him in a place security wouldn't pull them apart in. No matter how big or strong Nathan was, he'd never beat a knife in a fight. Asshole.

Murderface began to calm down and accept Nathan's decision as they flew over the southwestern corner of Great Britain. They resumed seats in Amsterdam's airport after clearing customs, waiting for their final jump north.

"Scho. . ." Murderface crossed his arms again. "What'sch your band like?"

"It's okay. Brutal, but there's definitely more to be desired."

"Scho you definitely won't think about combining the bandsch."

"I already told you, I don't want to dress up like a civil war soldier. And your band name sucks."

"General Bobby and the Leesch isch a  _great_  band name!"

"Maybe like thirty years ago, if you were a jazz quartet."

"Schincshe when did  _you_  become schuch a muschic snob? I wasch playing bassch while you were schtill schitting in diapersch!"

Rather than go on the offensive, Nathan's brow crowded in the centre. "I've never been able to shut off this thing in my brain. It's like anything but the most brutal shit makes me bored. So that's my minimum. If I don't get bored, it's good. If I do, it's not worth my time. And now I think I've seen enough in order to  _create_  that kind of shit."

"Guessch it'sch better than being a scherial killer, or schomething. Although that'd be kind of aweschome."

"You can't even kill a cockroach that's already pretty much drowned."

"I've scheen more brutal thingsch than you know! I schaw my parentsch die!"

"When you were a fucking baby."

"Scho?"

"I'm not going to have a pissing contest with you, Murderface. Just let it go."

Nathan underestimated Murderface, if he thought the older man would give up so easily. By continuously reigniting the same argument, he slowly wore Nathan down to doing whatever he wanted. It worked with his grandparents, it worked with the education system, and now it would soon work with his band's future vocalist. If Murderface didn't get Nathan to yield by their arrival in Gothenburg, then the festival had to work. He needed to get Nathan to a place where he'd readily discuss musical style and accept that the brutality of America's Civil War was suitable song material.

Sweden's May weather lagged behind Florida's, judging by the cold. Murderface clutched his arms when they stepped out of the airport, knees knocking as both he and Nathan came to a stop. "Holy fuck, it'sch colder than January!"

"Is this. . .is this snow I'm looking at? Brutal." Indeed, a small, nearly melted pile sat in the shade. "I hate this place already."

"Fuck thisch. We need coatsch."

Equipped with winter jackets and scarves, they became subject to stares on the bus west toward the city. It couldn't be easier to tell the difference between those who travelled here, and those who just returned home. Nearly everyone speaking in the same vein of gibberish wore tee shirts and sneakers. A couple even fanned themselves, despite the open windows. A whole different breed of people lived over here. Even though Murderface regarded heat the same way after moving to Florida, he didn't appreciate going through climate adjustment all over again.

"This is the coldest place I've ever been. I fucking hate it," Nathan remarked. In the city centre, where they wound up, everyone and their dogs seemed to flock to the streets. "Hm. This is probably the first day they've seen sun all year. Poor fuckers. I feel so bad for them."

"Schould've been born in the good ol' U-Esch of A." Murderface stepped into a blonde woman's track as she passed them. "Hey you! Where'sch the muschic feschtival?"

". . .Förlåt?"

"Do you schpeak Englisch?"

The woman gazed at Murderface, then shook her head in regret. "You sound like English, but I can't be for sure. . ."

"All right, all right, let me handle this." Nathan pushed Murderface out of the way. "Metal festival. Where is it?"

Unable to understand any of the landmarks their impromptu guide described, Nathan finally got her to draw a map in a torn out page of his notebook. Slottskogen, the park they were directed to, lived up to their expectations musically, but not so much for the setting.

"How can you have a metal feschtival in a park that'sch alscho got a petting zoo?"

"Maybe the animals like metal."

"Animalsch can't like metal." Murderface stared at some ponies. "I thought Schweden wasch schupposed to be brutal. You know, descholate schnowy mountainsch asch far asch you can see, everyone drilling holesch for food scho that they don't die, killing each other in competition for matesch. . ."

"You're thinking of the vikings. And you're clear that Sweden isn't in Canada, right? We established that?"

"Oh, fuck Canada. Canada'sch not brutal. They've never even been in a war."

Nathan pointed toward the grounds where the rest of the crowd congregated. "Let's go see what they call metal in Sweden, then."

Nathan preferred to stand back and watch, but Murderface quickly pushed his way right up to the front. Music snob that Nathan was, he missed out entirely so far on Sweden's death metal scene. It popped up here more prevalently than in Florida, where more people with similar mind to Nathan preoccupied themselves far too much with lyrics that no one could even understand and a batch of instruments competing to make the most noise. In Sweden, the singing became clearer—more English lyrics than Swedish, as far as Murderface heard—and the music generally easier to listen to. Melody struck Murderface's fancy more than a wall of noise, and yet, sometimes these bands sacrificed a heavier sound _for_  that melody. Murderface ignored that for the most part, especially here when the bass vibrated every cell of fat on his body and long hair kept swiping him in the face. He punched a tall guy as entrance fee to the mosh pit and rapidly cleared everyone out.

"Pretty schweet, huh?" Murderface panted as he found Nathan between sets. "Whatcha think?"

Nathan certainly descended into deep thought. "It's not brutal enough. But it could be."

"Schee, thisch isch what I wasch talking about. Imagine we brought thisch back home with usch. Think about what you could do with it."

"Write songs about Gettysburg?" Nathan frowned. "You understand that if we were in the same band, it wouldn't have anything to do with American history if I didn't say so, right? There're more brutal things out there than a bunch of rednecks fighting for the right to make black people pick their fields."

"Name  _five_  thingsch!"

"Fuckface Academy!" someone nearby hollered, then ran toward the stage. An explosion of bass and immaculately squealing guitars clogged the airspace and completely interrupted Nathan and Murderface's argument. That sounded eerily like the grey area that existed between Floridian and Swedish death metal, even if the vocalist could stand to be more aggressive. The bassist headbanged up at the front, but the guitarist, dressed entirely in white, hung near the back. Murderface dismissed his stage presence as nil, but after a couple solos, neither he nor Nathan (judging by the excited widening of his eyes) could deny such raw talent. Forgetting previous annoyances, they punched their way close enough to see the guy in action. It proved pointless—the blond's fingers moved so quickly over the fretboard that they blurred. And yet, despite his speed, he managed to play a completely coherent song. That was a hard balance for a guitarist to maintain.

"That'sch fucking amazing!" Murderface hollered near Nathan's ear. "Look at him fucking go! And he'sch juscht a kid!"

Whether due to lax safety requirements or unpreparedness in the amount of shaking Fuckface Academy would subject the stage to, the entire thing's centre of gravity shifted slowly enough to notice yet too fast to do anything about it. The music swelled and stopped as all five members of the band jarred suddenly to the right, and then silent screams were replaced by tiny spurts of blood as being squished forced their organs to the outside of their body. Only the lead guitarist, white now speckled with red, stood amongst the carnage. He inspected his surroundings, like the horrified audience, and while they screamed and fled, the blond stayed. Even security bolted, leaving nothing to separate him from Nathan and Murderface.

"Fan!  _Fan!_ " The blond kicked his lead singer's decapitated head. Briefly Murderface thought he acted out of disbelieving grief, but the guitarist only seemed peeved that the set was so abruptly ruined. Nathan leapt the barrier, prompting Murderface to follow. He didn't jump over so gracefully, instead landing on his side, but he reached Nathan's heels again as he ascended the stairs to the stage. The blond seemed uncertain by their appearance, debating whether or not he too should run, as if they'd deliberately caused this, but he firmly stood his ground as Nathan pointed at him.

"You. You're going to be in my band."

The guitarist furrowed his brow, prompting Murderface to grunt. "I don't think he schpeaks Englisch."

"Ja, I does. Did gots the tops place fors it in my skull—skoo—skill?" He paused to think about the pronunciation. "I just can'ts be in yous band, b'cause I ams alreadies in one."

"You mean these guys?" Nathan pointed at the bassist, whose brain juices oozed through his broken, squished skull.

The blond huffed and exhaled. "Ja, I guess I ams. . .how's you say? Ons de market."

He slung his guitar over his shoulder and followed Nathan and Murderface back off the stage. Sweat made his hair stringy and he shivered lightly in any breeze that came up. Murderface felt good enough to ditch his winter attire before heading into the mosh pit, but he put his jacket back on now. Fucking Nathan. After all the nagging Murderface did to get him to consider General Bobby and the Lees, this Swedish dildo had his complete attention and approval within half an hour. And they didn't even know him yet.

"I'm Nathan, and this is Murderface. He's in a different band than me, but you should be in mine. I need a guitarist like you. You're fast, but you still manage to be good. Usually it's one or the other."

"Ja, ams like two fickles misskress whats you gots to make happy at the same times, but I does it just fine," the guitarist breezily stated. "My name ams Skwisgaar Skwigelf."

"Any good bars around here?"

They wound up in a dive of one, where no one questioned the blood spatter on Skwisgaar. The bartender only eyed him with a raised brow as he ordered a round. They took their beer to a corner booth where instead of drinking his, Skwisgaar began playing his guitar again. Murderface watched his fingers go as he tried the Swedish ale. Not bad. Could be better.

"So what kind of bands am you in? I don'ts do try outs by the way. I can gets in any band by my reputateskin."

"Death metal. We're from Florida. You should come back to America with us."

Murderface brought a fist down onto the table. "You never offered  _me_  to be in your band!"

"Because I already have a bassist and you're not special enough to boot him out."

"But I can play with my hog!"

"And he can play with his fingers."

Skwisgaar laughed. "Aw, don't takes it personslies. Not everyone can be a talentsged musgiskins. Ams okay to cries about dat."

"Schut it, Blondie."

"I woulds kill myselfs, personallys."

"How about we schettle this outschide? Then we'll schee who'sch laughing."

"Bring it, crybaby."

"Cool it," Nathan directed at Murderface before he could jump up and drag Skwisgaar out onto the sidewalk by his hair. "We're not here to fight. I want to talk about music shit."

"Ja." Skwisgaar commenced to ignore Murderface. "What bands am has you beens in—?"

"Skwisgaar!"

The bartender yelled something in Swedish at the little kid coming their way, pale blue eyes wide and shoulder-length brown hair framing a relieved grin. Skwisgaar switched back to Swedish until his confusion cleared up, then he looked back at Nathan once the bartender approached in a threatening manner. "If you woulds excuse me, I has somet'ing to attends to."

"You're coming back, right?"

"Ja. Just a minute."

The little boy followed Skwisgaar back outside. Murderface took his opportunity to lean closer to Nathan. "I don't truscht him, and I don't think you schould either."

"And why not? He's perfectly fine. You saw how he could play. I'd kill to get him in my band."

"You're a real asschole, you know that? You've never even offered to let me in your band—didn't even tell me you  _had_  a band!—but you aschked thisch Schwedish dildo before you even knew hisch name!"

"It's all about talent, Murderface. I know what I want my band to sound like."

Skwisgaar came back inside, with the boy on his heels. He gabbled with the bartender and seemed to strike a deal since the kid came over to sit with them. He shied away from the Americans, Murderface especially after he shot him a stink-eye, but was pretty happy to sit next to the pompous blond.

"Brother?" Nathan asked.

"Just a friends who wasn't am supposed to even  _bes_  here, today." Skwisgaar peered indicatively at the kid, who obviously didn't understand a single word of English. "Name ams Toki. But whats was we talking about? Oh yeah, tells me about yous band."

"It's called Regurgitated and Re-Eaten. I'm the lead singer and I manage, all that bullshit."

"I haves never heard of you. But then agains, I don't liskens to much American metals. It am is missings somet'ing what my ear like."

"We could change that. Merge what we do."

"I woulds have to hear what you am like forst. I can'ts in good consgince move that fars away if I don't know what I gets myself into."

"I don't have any demos with me, but I do got this." Nathan slid his notebook across the table. "They're just lyrics, but obviously you know how to write music and you probably prefer to do that part of it. I'd leave it to you. I'm comfortable with that."

Skwisgaar flipped through the pages, stopping when Toki's face lit up and he pointed at Facebones. Skwisgaar hushed him in a language he understood, so while Skwisgaar stumbled over the English lyrics the kid quietly looked at Nathan's doodles. He didn't seem fazed at all by the more brutal ones, like of a woman with tentacles emerging from her snatch. Even the corner of Skwisgaar's mouth twitched upward when he saw it.

"I like it. It ams good ideas, but I don't know thats I should be movingks across the ocean on such a whims." Skwisgaar handed the notebook back. "Maybe I takes a water check?"

"A what?"

"T'inks about it laters."

Nathan's shoulders sagged, but Murderface couldn't be happier. "How 'bout I give you my phone number? You change your mind, you give me a call. Got my own place with an extra room, if you need somewhere to crash."

"Ja, okay."

Nathan ripped out a page of his notebook and dashed down not only his number but his address too, just in case the blond wound up in the country, he said. The little kid nudged Skwisgaar, then whispered something in his ear.

"Toki ams wondering if he can has one of the skull guy pickster."

"Facebones? Yeah, sure."

"Takk," he said when Nathan handed it to him.

"Dat ams mean t'anks you." Skwisgaar stood and slid Nathan's contact information into his pocket. "We shoulds be going. Was am nice to meets you."

"What a dick," Murderface supplied as soon as the blond and his little pal were out of earshot. "You're not scheriouschly conschidering him, are you?"

"What's it to you?"

All in all, Murderface considered his attempt to get Nathan into his band a complete and utter failure. Perhaps he'd finally met someone stubborn enough to be immune to his manipulations. He only hoped that asshole of a guitarist would forget about Nathan, or at least put his jeans through the wash without considering the piece of paper in his pocket. The last thing Murderface needed in his own country, in his own social circle, was such intimidating competition.


	7. Ghost in the Night

Summer waned, as well as the long winter that followed. In the meantime, Skwisgaar moved on to a new band called Smugly Dismissed and rose from the ashes of Fuckface Academy's abrupt end. Tallak wound up right about the consequences of Toki going to Göteburg, even if forbidding the young boy from their presence didn't stop him from managing the trip. Skwisgaar personally took Toki back to Lillehammer, and he hadn't seen him since.

Not for lack of visiting the town. Although the guitarist no longer had business there, someone unexpected kept drawing him back whenever he had a couple free days. Astrid, Tallak's single mother, proved an unlikely mate in the wake of her son's funeral. She liked him to come around because while she no longer had a child, her mothering instinct didn't die with him. Skwisgaar ate his share of baked goods and excellent dinners, something he never got at home. Any confusion or disconcert he experienced the first time he took her to bed got pushed down as far as possible. She remained gentle and sweet, making it easy to forget that Skwisgaar crossed any lines. Neither of them expressed any desire to make it official; Skwisgaar merely suspected that, along with the hole her son left, Astrid relied on him to fill the one claimed by Tallak's father, as well.

On one such trip to Lillehammer, when he poised to stay the weekend plus a couple days, Skwisgaar sat on the edge of Astrid's bed and collected his jeans from the floor. She ran her nails lightly over the small of his back, sending a chill up his spine. "I'll have dinner ready by the time you get back."

"What're you cooking?"

"I took some chicken out, but I'm not sure yet."

"I might be a while, so take your time." Skwisgaar leaned over to kiss her before pulling his sweater back on. "If I stop at the liquor store on my way back, would you want anything?"

"Some wine, I suppose. Surprise me."

Skwisgaar stepped out into the night, breath hanging in the air before him. Even though Toki was somehow connected to the deaths of the entire lineups of Gognugmug and Fuckface Academy, Skwisgaar didn't fear the young boy. He was too nice, too eager, too. . . _innocent_  to kill someone. Not that Toki could be held responsible for Arvid killing himself in the middle of the night or the stage collapsing, which brought Skwisgaar back every time this occupied his mind to the Reverend's wife. She somehow spoke to Arvid telepathically—if he could be believed—and what if, upon finding out where her son had disappeared to, she caused a freak accident in Göteburg?

But then why spare Skwisgaar? Did he just get lucky? Did Toki's fondness and admiration save him? Or was all of this just a coincidence? Skwisgaar didn't believe in Heaven, Hell, or any of their variations, but he couldn't deny something eerie lurking in the background here.

With how often he still visited Lillehammer, Skwisgaar worried about Toki. He should have seen him since last spring. What if Mrs. Wartooth turned her powers against her own son? Would she do that? Toki expressed slight worry on the way home about what his parents might do if they didn't buy his story about heading out into the wilderness on pilgrimage, which was quite unusual for his naivety. How would anyone even know that the young boy disappeared from the face of the earth? No one at any of the bars or record shops Skwisgaar asked around at remembered seeing him, and he didn't even know where to start on tracking down anyone that might have listened to him play his guitar in the street. The only way to know for sure what happened was to visit the Haven.

If Skwisgaar remembered correctly from four years ago, when Arvid abruptly introduced Toki to his life, the congregation met at the church around seven o'clock Sunday evening for mass. He reached it himself at six-thirty, and found a bush to hide in while he waited. All he needed to know was what direction they came from, and that both of Toki's parents showed up. Maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn't have to take the trek out of town. Toki might tag along.

No, that would be too easy. Mr. and Mrs. Wartooth led the line of cloaked figures into the building, congregating with other groups like their own coming in from the west, north, and south. Without any deliberation, Skwisgaar set off following the well-packed track. He had no idea exactly how far out of Lillehammer Toki lived, but if more than an hour passed with no village, he'd turn back and try again another time.

Forty-five minutes in, he began his ascent on a long hill. Toki mentioned something of the sort and, to concrete Skwisgaar's belief that he arrived, one lone trail of smoke bled skyward. A gust of wind punched him in the chest when he came to the peak. Below, less than twenty houses stood completely dark, all but one. The smoke came from its chimney, and light was visible through one of the windows. As the biggest homestead, it had to belong to the Reverend and his family. Only one way to find out.

The path here had many chances for Skwisgaar to hide if necessary, but the expanse of land before the village was completely open. He skirted across it as quickly as possible, taking cover on a dark side of the house. Once he regained his breath, he crept around and peeked in the window. Any relief he might experience to know that Toki lived was eclipsed by the horror of what he saw.

Toki kneeled in front of the fire, cringing every time the heavily marked skin on his back shifted. One of the fresher cuts released trickles of blood toward his pants. Even reaching back with a rag to stifle it caused the boy pain. With no regard how Toki might accept company or if the boy was truly alone, Skwisgaar let himself in the front door.

Toki sniffled. "H-Hello?"

Skwisgaar's boots echoed as he crossed the kitchen. Toki stood with his shirt over his chest, ready to run when Skwisgaar found him again. Candles threw light onto the Swede's face, softening Toki's.

"What're you doing here?" Toki asked. "You should leave. I'll get in trouble again and I don't know what my parents would do to  _you_."

"What time do they get back from church?"

"Not until the middle of the night, sometimes. Sunset, at the earliest."

Skwisgaar sighed. "You're bleeding."

"Oh."

"Do you have a bathroom? You need to dress your back."

"Only an earth closet."

"Then I'll put some water on to boil. It'll get infected if you don't take care of it."

Toki followed Skwisgaar into the kitchen, suddenly a stranger in his own home. He hung forlornly near the door. Although normally Toki possessed a runny mouth for information Skwisgaar didn't care about, now he said nothing. Someone must've shut him up good. "I'm sorry you had to see me."

"Who did that to you?"

"My Papa."

"Why?"

"For going to the festival."

"That was nearly a year ago, Toki."

The young boy nodded miserably. "Every time they get itchy, he opens them all back up. And they took my guitar away. I didn't think they'd care so much, but they think Satan's in me. I'm supposed to be pure for my next birthday, and Papa's scared we're running out of time."

"Fucking hell." Skwisgaar leaned back against the counter. Unlike any other kitchen he'd ever been in, everything was constructed with unfinished wood. It looked more like a workshop. "So that's why you haven't been in town?"

"You've been looking for me?"

"I take a walk anytime I'm there, to see if you're around."

Toki's bottom lip trembled and his eyes filled with tears. Full of pity, Skwisgaar pat him awkwardly on the head rather than push him away when tight arms squeezed his waist. Toki's entire body shook and Skwisgaar soon felt something wet seeping through his shirt. "No one's ever cared this much about me, before. Thank you."

"You're my little friend, right?" Skwisgaar replied. "This is what friends do. Eh. . .how about you get comfortable and I'll clean you up?"

Toki initially didn't like Skwisgaar touching his cuts, but his shame waylaid with gentle coaching from the Swede. His muscles soon relaxed and he rested his chin on the table.

"I've thought a lot, Toki, and there's something I don't understand." Skwisgaar sat on one of the stools behind him. " Is your mother a witch?"

"A witch?" Toki repeated. "No, I don't think so. She's just my normal Mama."

"She can't make things move without touching them, read people's minds, anything like that?"

"If she can, she's never done it with me. I got away a long time with playing metal on my guitar, and the only reason she and Papa found out I went to the festival is because they found the drawing that guy gave me. I had such a fun time there, and I wanted to keep something to remember it. I guess that was pretty stupid, huh?"

"Don't call yourself stupid. You should be allowed to do things like that."

"But I lied to them. I deserved all this."

"You didn't deserve anything, so stop it. They might think you did, but it's not true. Who or what exactly does your church worship, anyway? Why is it so secretive?"

Toki sniffled all over again. "I'm not actually in the church yet. I'm not let in until I'm fifteen, and then something big's going to happen."

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure. You see, we haven't always lived here. I was born in Lillehammer. My Papa used to drink a lot and Mama liked to gamble. They finally had me and when I was born on the winter solstice, my Papa was visited in the night by an angel that revealed to him the truth. So they abandoned everything and moved back here. Everyone's converted, since then."

"To what, exactly?"

"I won't know until my birthday, but Papa promised he'll tell me everything. It's going to be a very important day. That's what Lucifer said."

Skwisgaar paused in dabbing Toki's back. "What did you just say?"

"Lucifer came to Papa in a dream and told him the truth about the Heavens and Hell. Yahweh rules his Heaven, but he's not very nice, and Satan rules Hell. They're actually pretty good pals. But Lucifer, when he rebelled against Yahweh, he founded his own Heaven. And that's the one my Papa's going to get us into. He can hear Lucifer almost all the time, you know. It's like someone whispering in the other room, he says.

"But I don't think Papa is doing right by him. Lucifer questioned Yahweh and left, and I question my Papa. Is that really such a bad thing? Papa has turned into Yahweh trying to be good by Lucifer. I'm the only one that sees it, I think, but I'm too scared to tell him."

"You know what I think you should do?"

"What?"

"I think you should come with me and get  _out_  of this place."

"I don't know how. I need to stay, otherwise how will everyone else get into Heaven? They need me."

"Toki, if I told you something, would you at least consider the possibility?"

"Like what?"

"That there is no Heaven or Hell, no God, Satan, or Lucifer. None of them exist. They were created by man and handed down through the generations in order to help people civilize and moralize themselves."

Toki shook his head adamantly. "Nej, you're wrong. Lucifer is real. I never would've gotten to Göteburg if he didn't watch over me."

"You've grown up in a cult. This isn't even a religion. No god ever wants their children to be hurt like this."

"Sometimes the ends justify the means. You're lying! Lucifer speaks to my father, you can't explain that!"

"Sometimes people just hear voices in their head. It's an illness, like when your nose runs and you get a cough. It's just something not working right."

"He's not crazy."

"How would you ever know the difference?" Skwisgaar kept on when Toki didn't reply. "There's a whole world out there, Toki. There's so much more that you could be doing. Haven't you missed playing your guitar? Wouldn't you like to be able to do whatever you wanted, whenever you want?"

"My Mama and Papa did that, they left here for a while, but all they found were demons."

"You can always come back, if you want."

"Then why bother leaving?"

"So that you won't wonder what could have happened, in your life. To see what else you can do. To have fun. Then, if you come back, you'll know  _you_  made the decision, not your parents."

"But they'd be so mad. What about my birthday?"

"What about it? What's so special about fifteen?"

Toki shrugged.

"If something's meant to happen on your fifteenth birthday, it'll find a way to happen. Maybe you're meant to leave before that. You never know. If there's some sort of fate there, then you can't really escape it, can you?"

"I guess not. . ."

"So come with me. I have my own place in Göteburg. You can sleep on the couch. It's not much, but it's better than this. We'll find you a new guitar to play and you can go to any shows you like."

"If I go I won't ever be able to come back. They'll never speak to me again."

"Would that really be such a bad thing?"

"They're my parents, Skwisgaar! How would you like it if yours never spoke to you?"

"I would love it if my mom stayed out of my business forever, and I never knew my dad anyway."

"I don't understand how you can say that."

"Maybe you're just not old enough to get it, now. When I was about your age, I realized my mom wasn't some holy lady that could never make a single mistake. She's just human, and so are  _your_ parents. They screw up sometimes. They still think that dreams have meaning, like your dad."

"But maybe, if all that you're saying is true, nothing will happen on my birthday, the church will go away, and then we'll just be normal again."

"I wouldn't count on it. Lots of churches predict the end of the world and then when it doesn't happen they just figure they read something wrong."

"Then what's the harm in staying? If something's going to happen, I don't want to miss it. You don't get it, Skwisgaar. Lucifer is my whole life. I live here because of him. I pray to him all the time. He's real, he  _has_  to be."

Skwisgaar sighed inaudibly. Just like any other religion, no matter how backwards. "If that's what you want to believe, then. But answer me this: if he does exist and your dad is somehow living wrong by him, then what?"

"How can he be? He's in direct contact with him."

"Then why won't he let you listen to metal?"

"Because Satan and Lucifer are completely different people. Don't you get it?" Now Toki grew short with Skwisgaar. "You must have a sad life, not believing in anything. I can't imagine walking through the forest and seeing such a cold world. How can you want to live when there's nothing after you die? Then what's the point?"

"That's the point. There  _is_  no point. It takes a long time to accept that, though. You will, eventually."

"Maybe my dad is right. Maybe you  _are_  Satan."

"Your dad's nuts."

"And why not? It makes sense to me. You just show up here in the middle of the night, you actually want to be my friend even though you're famous and could have any friend in the whole world, you play guitar like I want to play guitar, and you're pushing me to leave everything behind. Doesn't that sound like the devil?"

"It sounds like the stupidest thing I ever heard."

"See! Exactly what Satan would say!" Toki recoiled from Skwisgaar's touch. "I think you should leave. If I don't want you in my house anymore, I can make you go away just by saying so. That's the law, in your world."

"In my world, I'm just a guy from Sweden who plays guitar and is trying to look out for you. Doesn't it make sense that your dad would pit you against me? He probably thinks I'm the one that led you astray, right?"

"Only Satan would know he told me that!" Pain erupted through Skwisgaar's jaw as Toki's fist connected with it. Unable to breathe as his back hit the floor flat, Skwisgaar tried to roll away from the young boy's panic. He completely underestimated how strong he was, although his muscles should've given indication. Of course, he considered himself safe when he arrived here, thanks to Toki's prior admiration. He tasted blood and pulled up into a ball, waiting for the pummelling strikes to end.

Toki stood, winded, over Skwisgaar. The Swede flinched when Toki reached for him, then struggled to his feet. "Ja, sure. I'll leave. Fuck you, Toki. I only tried to help."

"Skwisgaar—"

"Get out of my way!"

"I'm sorry. You can't. . .I wouldn't have been able to hit you, if you were—"

"I don't even care, anymore. Have fun, being their punching bag. I'm outta here." Skwisgaar seemed to walk through molasses as Toki held onto his leg. He fell over again when the Norwegian slid down to his ankle. "Let go of me. I'm leaving."

"Don't go! You're the only friend I've ever had, and you don't know what it's  _like_  here." Toki trembled. "I'm such a bad boy, filled up with so much sin, and my Papa. . .he hurt me so much."

Skwisgaar tried to shake Toki off, but when he looked down all he saw was a pathetic little kid that just suffered a year of intense physical, emotional, and spiritual abuse. Churches safe-guarded against truth-bearers like himself, so how could Toki believe any differently from what his father literally whipped into him? His face didn't hurt so much anymore when he saw that Toki's wounds had reopened during their struggle. "I'm leaving, so if you want to get your shit together and come, then you'd better do it now."

"I still don't know if I want to go. But you're my friend, and I want to keep it that way."

"Whatever." Skwisgaar yanked his foot from Toki's crushing clasp. "Ja, maybe we'll still be friends. None of my friends have ever beat me up before, though."

"I said I was sorry!"

"I really don't even care at this point." Skwisgaar grabbed his jacket off the table and headed for the door. Unfortunately, a stomach-dropping sight halted him.

Fuck. Looked like church let out a lot sooner than either he or Toki expected.

"Hide!" Toki pulled Skwisgaar away from the door and ushered him down the hallway. Without a closet in his room, Toki encouraged Skwisgaar in rapid whispers onto the floor. When the blond pressed himself against the wall under his bed, Toki ran back out to resume the position Skwisgaar found him in. All the Swede could hear was his pounding heart and rushed breath. He knew the punishment for messing with Toki's path to righteousness. All he could do now was hope Mrs. Wartooth was indeed not a witch, lest her cold heart seek him out.

Voices became audible beyond Toki's fervent prayer, then footsteps echoed on the kitchen door steps. Toki didn't stop praying, nor did he get up to greet them.

"Amen," Toki tied off. Skwisgaar strained to hear. "I did my chores and all my prayers."

"Good," his father replied. Mrs. Wartooth shuffled about in the kitchen. "Are you ready?"

"J-ja."

The kitchen door opened and closed again, leaving a terrified Skwisgaar alone with Toki's mother. Any moment now, she'd come yank him out from under the bed and kill him before her husband and son returned. However, instead, water boiled again and she tended to hot tea, most likely. Didn't she sense an intruder?

Toki and the Reverend returned about ten minutes later. The young boy tried to stay strong, but Skwisgaar heard the slightest tremble that could only mean his father whipped him again. Another silent hour passed, then Mrs. Wartooth spoke. "It's bedtime, Toki. I'll come say your prayers with you."

Skwisgaar curled up closer to the wall and bit down on his fingers. Maybe he could attack her and run while her stunned husband looked on. Take Toki, that way. He certainly couldn't leave him, not to live another day like this. Could it work? Would he get away through a forest they probably knew like the back of their hands? Who would come find Skwisgaar, when he disappeared like that? Astrid had no idea where he went. Maybe. . .maybe he should wait. . .

Toki's knobbly knees and a pair obscured by a navy cloak situated less than three feet away from Skwisgaar. They must be able to hear him breathing, no chance otherwise. Toki stood first after the amen and the bed frame creaked under his weight. His mother sat on the edge.

"He's close to forgiving you, your father says. Then it can stop."

"I couldn't be more sorry, Mama."

"I know. As soon as Lucifer realizes that, we won't have to do it anymore."

How dare they make Toki  _thank_  them for ceasing their whippings? Skwisgaar nearly grabbed Mrs. Wartooth in his sudden anger, but clenched his hands instead. Once she left the room, Skwisgaar knocked quietly against the bedspring. Toki returned his acknowledgement. Stubby little fingers hung over the bed's edge, but Skwisgaar still didn't dare move. Above, Toki's breath grew more laboured and he sniffled.

When moonlight came in through the window, Toki crept down to the floor and peered in at Skwisgaar. "I think they're asleep. Come on."

They snuck out of the room toward the kitchen. Toki opened the door and Skwisgaar passed, but the boy didn't budge further. "Aren't you coming?"

Toki shook his head. "I already told you, I can't. But you need to go before they find you. Maybe we'll see each other again?"

Desperation in Toki's tone caused Skwisgaar to lie. "Ja, I think we will. Be safe, okay Toki?"

He ran for tree cover, unwilling to look back. He only hoped any of their movements hadn't woken the Wartooths and subscribed Toki to another year of pain. The boy already fell apart. He didn't need anything else piled on.

"Jesus Christ, where have you been?" Astrid secured the knot on her housecoat as she opened the door for Skwisgaar. "I've been so worried! It's nearly one o'clock!"

The trek back hadn't been easy. Skwisgaar stepped off the trail often, leading to muddy boots and hair snagged in branches. He shivered, even with his jacket. "Just. . .got off track, I guess."


	8. And So it Begins

Although aware he dreamed, Nathan couldn't force himself awake. He continued swimming through the long, tight tunnel, surfacing again in the cave. He came alone this time—no team, and no Special Agent. Rather than darkness, the cavern illuminated from the area with the paintings. However, between here and there, a tall man with long white hair stood.

"You don't remember me," he spoke in an airy tone. "But I remember you. . ."

Nathan opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, reminding himself that a couple years passed since he served in the Middle East. Oddly enough, he never had nightmares about the usual stuff, like any doctor ever warned him about, but these weird dreams came often enough that he couldn't quit forget about them. He hated the feeling that came with, like he'd stepped into another room and forgot what he looked for.

"Hey man. How'sch it goin'?" Murderface already lounged in front of the television, indulging in the Discovery Channel's 48th Anniversary Special on the Normandy landings. "Look like you had a fight with a bear."

"Shitty dreams," Nathan grumbled. He plopped down on the couch with a beer. "Shouldn't you, uh. . .remember, we talked about this. You were going to practice extra hard for our show tonight, rather than watch this."

"I ran out of tapesch to record it, though! And I'm practicing on the commercshalsch, anyway."

"Hm." Murderface's bass hung around his neck, more than likely forgotten. "Magnus and Lawrence are going to be here at two. So you'd better be ready for it."

Nathan downed his beer to quell his headache, then got up intended for the shower. He stopped at the answering machine on his way through the kitchen, attracted by the blinking light. " _'Good morning sweetheart, it's your mother. Just wanted to touch base with you before your big show tonight. Call me and let me know if you wanted to come for dinner beforehand, or if I should just put some soup in a container and drop it off for you. Love you, bye.'_ "

"What kind of schoup did sche make?" Murderface called from the other room.

"I dunno." Nathan deleted the message. Why did his mother have to do this? He was a grown man capable of taking care of himself. What he should do was change the number and not tell her, then maybe she wouldn't clog up the machine so much. He bought it intended to keep track of who called to offer Dethklok gigs, not so that his mother could further smother him with her hospitality.

Lawrence showed up while Nathan washed and found a place with Murderface in the living room. They both crossed their arms and discussed the tactics on-screen, Lawrence's pinned pant-leg folded between his knee and the cushion. He got sick of Nathan and Murderface staring at his stump.

"Magnus is late again," he needlessly pointed out.

"Scho irreschponschible," Murderface quipped. His amp crackled as he plugged his bass in, downstairs. "If he doesch't schmarten up, we'll be looking for two guitarischts all over again."

"Not your say," Nathan reminded him, even though he agreed. He came away from the Marines more obsessed about punctuality than when he went in. Living with Murderface helped lax that up a bit, but shit like this always reminded him of one of his pet peeves.

"Sorry I'm late, dudes." Magnus sauntered in.

"Whatever. Just get ready to play."

The first song started off sloppily as Murderface, Lawrence, and Magnus struggled to catch each other's rhythms. Nathan never worried about warm up or practice on his part, since the nature of his vocal cords allowed him to merely raise his voice and achieve what so many other death metal vocalists worked for years to get right. He went onto autopilot and listened to what the other guys did. Murderface played lazily, and while Lawrence was enthusiastic, his lack of a second foot inhibited his ability completely to do blast beats. Although Magnus was talented with his instrument, he tried too often to influence Nathan's lyrics and couldn't play as technically as he'd otherwise boast. Not that they were a bad band. Really, they dominated the Tampa Bay Area even with their minor setbacks. It helped that Nathan strove to be different than any of the other dildos competing for the spotlight and record label attention.

Murderface glanced at the clock when they finished the setlist prepared for that evening. "And with time to schpare. What time isch your mom coming over with that schoup?"

"I dunno. Never called her back."

"Well, you schould! I'm getting hungry!"

Nathan ignored Murderface and headed upstairs. Now came the restless obsession. While his band mates caught the end of the marathon on TV, he sat at the kitchen table with a new beer and poured over the setlist. Maybe it ought to be moved around a bit. They couldn't put too many hard-hitting tracks in a row, otherwise the audience would grow numb to it, and if they played too many easy-listening tracks (a relative term, in the death metal scene), then the audience would get the wrong idea about them.

A knock came at the door. Murderface hadn't ordered a pizza, since he didn't loiter around the foyer for the last ten minutes, so Nathan got up to answer. More than likely, another noise complaint.

"Hello, my dear."

". . .Mom, what're you doing here?"

"You never called back and your father and I had nothing else to do today, so we thought we'd come early into the city." Oscar waved from the front seat of the car. "Why don't you get dressed and we'll take you out for lunch?"

Nathan thought long and hard of all the things he'd rather do, then how much guilt he'd be subjected to if he used any of them as an excuse. Oh well. . .he hadn't seen his dad in a little while. "I guess so."

"Who'sch at the door?" Murderface asked as Nathan pulled his boots on. "Where're you going? Are you going to get food? Oh, hi, Mrsch. Exploschion!"

"Hello, William. How're you?"

"I heard you were bringing schoup?"

"Oh. . .not today. Oscar and I are taking Nathan out, instead."

Murderface resorted to mumbling under his breath, shoulders hunched. Relieved to leave them all alone for a little while, Nathan scrunched up in the backseat of his parents' car.

"Your house sure is looking messy, again. You must not get much time to clean, do you?"

"I clean up after myself. It's Murderface that lives like a pig." Not that it mattered. They lived in a dump of a house, complete with leaky ceilings and a crack dealer on the corner. Name was Frank, nice guy. Sometimes Nathan came home and Murderface invited him in for a drink. Not that either of them really cared for what he made his living with.

"Oh, you shouldn't call him that. It's not nice to make fun of peoples' appearances. He can't help it."

"That's his real name, Mom."

"I refuse to believe that."

Rose chose a small cafe chock full of old people. Nathan turned sideways to get around the tiny tables and deaf women unaware that they should pull their chairs in, and chose the corner seat. If anyone he knew saw him here, he'd lose all credibility in the music scene. His mother's overbearing nature didn't help, already. At least living an hour away and playing late gigs kept her from coming to every show. Nathan only told her about as many as he needed to for her to believe he did all right financially.

Apparently he'd neglected that too much lately, because Rose regarded him with her usual look of worry. "Have you been okay, lately? We don't hear from you very much anymore."

"Just busy."

"You haven't told us about many shows."

"There's been a couple. You don't need to be at every single one."

Rose's expression mirrored his. "You're sure a crankypants today."

Nathan leaned forward on the table, hands covering his ears. He respected his mother enough not to hurt her feelings, but why couldn't she get the gist that at twenty-one years old, he wanted to live his life independently? A metal concert wasn't the second grade play. His parents didn't need to hover around the back and tell anyone that would listen that their boy was the one screaming at the mosh pit to get fucking crazy.

"Any luck finding a job?" Oscar contributed to the conversation.

"Not looking for one."

"Why not? You could work anywhere you like. You're a vet."

"I already have a job." Nathan needn't remind them he didn't finish high school, so having served his country didn't exactly matter. "And I like it. I make enough."

"Yes, but this has been the last two years of your life. Isn't there a point where the fun's over and you move on?"

"If there is, I'm not there yet."

"When you get closer to your thirties, you're going to realize that being in a band is only suitable as a hobby. Or god, I  _hope_  you realize it before then." Oscar shuddered. "Vet or not, you'd have no resume."

"Being a vet's not that important, dad. There are other things that people look at, that I don't got."

"Aw, don't get down on yourself like that." Rose pat his arm. "You're a wonderful young man with something to contribute."

"Yeah, to flipping burgers."

"Why didn't you stay in the Marines? You could've made a career out of that. You were still needed in the Middle East, or you could've gone to Somalia. It's never too late."

"Maybe, if this doesn't work out."

"And what counts as not working out? You make enough money to survive, sure, but what about in the long term? You can't make music for a living. Only people like Sting get to do that."

"I don't want to have this conversation again."

Rose walked Nathan to the door when they got back to his house and, much to his dismay, gave him a hug. "Don't fret about what your father says. I don't think you're completely lost. You should do what you love, and so long as you don't mind how you live, then what can either of us tell you?"

"Thanks." Despite her nice words, Nathan didn't believe his mother completely understood. He never worried about his future, because he knew deep in his heart that one day his name would be famous. He'd never have to worry about money, retirement, or anything else a regular jack-off would. All he needed was one stroke of luck, when someone from a record label happened to be at one of his shows.

Armed with that determination, Nathan did his best to instill it in his bandmates before the show. Murderface and Lawrence only played because they enjoyed it, but Nathan found a peer of sorts in Magnus. He was the only one that didn't grumble about wearing corpse paint, something Nathan saw on a couple bands while in Gothenburg. Too bad he couldn't pick anything else up there, like guitarists. More than likely, Skwisgaar forgot about him by then. Likewise, Nathan had to work really hard to recall the Swede's odd name.

"Just put on a good show," Nathan reminded them all. "Never know who's out there, so let's fucking murder this set."

He ignored the nagging little thought that his mother and father stood out in the crowd and launched into the show no differently than if they happened to not be there. Blood Puke started off their set, then Accidentally Ate my Intestines, Shoot Your Face, Diesel and Nails for Breakfast, and Drowning in Blood followed. The mosh pit lasted all throughout, with more bruised and bloody faces coming up after every song. Die for Dethklok, the final song, threw them into overdrive. At the end, when Nathan turned to leave the stage, he heard some guy holler about dying in the front row, then Nathan tensed with a loud popping noise he grew familiar with from his tour overseas. Rather than dropping, like Murderface, he turned around and sought out the soul so desperate for his attention. Most of the show-goers retreated, but one person hung near the front. His jaw hung on at one side, the bullet having shredded his tongue. With Nathan's undivided attention, the man raised his gun again and this time shot the bullet through his brain. Like rain, something splashed against Nathan's cheek. He wiped it off, expecting to find blood, but found brain matter instead.

Brutal.

"I'm fine." Nathan batted away a paramedic with yet another blanket. The other three band members took one, although Murderface mirrored Nathan's apathy. Lawrence lightly shook and Magnus rubbed his hands compulsively. The most Nathan did since being ushered from the building was wash his face.

Rose came alone to check on her son. More than likely, Oscar couldn't get back out of the vehicle. Unlike Nathan, his father reacted terribly to loud noises. It couldn't help that, unlike the fireworks their neighbours let off throughout the year, this was an actual gun. "How're you doing?"

"Fine."

"Really? Nathan, you could've just been killed."

"Not like I never been that close to a gun before."

"Don't talk like that."

Nathan shrugged.

"You need to change your shirt. You're still. . .speckled."

"I'll do it when I get home."

"You must be in shock."

"Really, Mom. I'm fine."

"I just don't understand. Why go somewhere to kill yourself? It doesn't make any sense. And it wasn't like he tried to ruin your show. He waited until after, yelling about dying for Dethklok. . .maybe you shouldn't play that song anymore?"

"I'll play whatever songs I like."

"This is going to be the PMRC all over again, if you aren't careful."

"Fuck that shit. It's not like we were serious. We can't be held accountable for anyone that actually kills themselves for us. That person's a fucking idiot."

"Nathan, watch your language!"

Nathan agreed to his mother's face not to play that song again, but it remained in the setlist for the next show. Not that she would know—after the way that night turned out, Rose and Oscar never came out to see his band play again.


	9. Tallahassee

"Hey chief! How 'bout another shot?" Pickles scratched the nape of his neck as the bartender refilled his ounce glass with whisky. "On second thought, jest leave the whole bottle. Heh."

With the show tonight cancelled due to poor ticket sales, Pickles snuck off the bus and sought solace in a dive bar. Apparently some guys from the Tampa Bay Area caught such leverage in their push up-state that they shadowed his well established band. Ouch.

"Turn it up!" Someone hollered from the other end of the bar, in regards to the television. "They're talking about Dethklok!"

". . .Further pressure from concerned parent groups regarding the musical content of extreme death metal band, Dethklok. What started as a grave coincidence in Tampa a couple months ago has transformed into twenty-two suicides across Florida, all occurring at their shows following the track  _Die for Dethklok_. Our reporter caught up to them in Jacksonville. . ."

A shaking camera filmed the band filing out of the back alley exit of a small venue. The singer, guitarist, and drummer ignored the reporter, but the bassist stepped into the streetlight. "Yeah, I guessch I got a minute."

"William Murderface, how do you respond to the allegations that your band is purposely killing your show-goers? Do you have subliminal messages in your tracks?"

"That'sch all bull- _bleep-_ , you schee—"

"Murderface, get over here. We're going!" Nathan Explosion, as subtitled on the screen, hollered at the repulsive man from the driver's seat of his van.

Rather than listen, Murderface pulled the camerawoman over to where Nathan scowled. "According to the conschtitutschion of thisch country, we're allowed to schay whatever we want!"

"We don't even say anything about race or religion," Nathan contributed. "We're exercising our freedom of speech. If a bunch of - _bleep_ \- want to come out and kill themselves at our show, that's their decision."

"Yeah! What're you gonna do to the kidsch that kill themschelvesch? Schend them to jail? Ha, lawyered!" Murderface's face split into a cat-like grin. "We got a messchage for thosche - _bleep_ \- in Waschington. You're - _bleep_ -ing on the rightsch of a man that scherved in Deschert Schtorm—"

"You don't need to bring that into this, Murderface."

"And why not? You scherved your country and all they're telling you isch to schut up!"

"Yeah." Nathan's eyes widened and darted back and forth. "Yeah, you're right!

"Listen here, Washington." Nathan pointed at the camera, hair falling into his face. "I saw a lot of - _bleep_ \- that you'll never have to, just because you wear a bunch of - _bleep_ -ing suits and could afford to send guys like me overseas. - _Bleep_ \- you and your - _bleep_ -ing government. We've got a special song just for you. See you in Tallahassee, mother- _bleep_ -ers."

The bar erupted into cheers, temporarily drowning out the news anchor. ". . .Song most recently added to the Filthy Fifty, right behind Snakes 'n' Barrels' 'Kill You', an uncharacteristically dark song for the Los Angeles based glam metal foursome that's caught a lot of attention because of similar outcomes, in which Ricky Pantera of Kearney, Nebraska ate his wife of fifteen years. . ."

Pickles grinned to himself, head lowered to obscure his recently finished dreadlocks along with his identity. While the other guys held concern over such a thing, Pickles personally regarded it as positive. Nothing helped a band more than bad press like this, as showcased by Dethklok. Suddenly, Pickles didn't feel so bad that their show got canceled. Instead of getting stone-ass drunk, he might go along with the crowd.

The streets turned to rivers heading downstream for the show. Pickles followed in the shadows, simply observing the anarchy that unfolded around him. Gunshots pierced the night, police cars trolled the streets in droves, and so many fights broke out that Pickles lost track of the difference between citizens and the law. Nathan Explosion said during the interview that he fought the war overseas so that their country's leaders didn't have to, but quite possibly he launched an entirely new one. Forget Somalia, Bosnia, or Iraq. Not all war zones existed an ocean away, because Dethklok established one here, in Florida's capital.

The crowds that actually managed to make it to the show tonight came to a stop at the doors as the filtering process began. Rather than deal with line ups, Pickles headed around back. A couple well placed bribes later, he paid for a beer inside. He couldn't even hear the two guys conversing right next to him over the chanting of Dethklok's name. The pressure inside the room reminded Pickles of the final warning nature gave before a tornado reached down for the ground, and then the excitement clumped together in one massive ball of energy, directed toward the stage as a silhouette appeared behind the drum kit. No mistaking the vocalist when he came out, that was for sure. He towered before the crowd, brows knitted together and a stray piece of hair hanging in front of his face.

His deep voice echoed through the venue. "Tallahassee. . .welcome!"

The drum intro to the first song hit Pickles like a defibrillator. His diaphragm refused to work and his jaw fell slack. No need to look any further, in order to find heavier music. He should've drifted further away from the bus all the other times Snakes 'n' Barrels rolled into the southern tip of this shitty state. Fuck, how was he even going to go  _back_  to his band after witnessing this show? While Tony allowed some brutality in their lyrics, he wasn't comfortable going as far as Pickles wanted, especially now, with their Filthy Fifty infamy. He'd never achieve on vocals what Nathan Explosion did, anyway. The man's clawed hand may as well puncture Pickles' chest and rip his heart out. Pickles could swear, through the rapidly shifting crowd, a couple bodies already littered the floor. . .

"For any of you motherfuckers that don't watch the news, our government's shitting on the first amendment because of us." Boos accompanied thumbs pointing downward as Nathan addressed the crowd again. "Some people might think that's fucked, but I'm actually starting to take it as a compliment. You know why? Because that means they're scared of what we have to say, and they're scared of  _you_  because you're finally hearing the truth. You're united, and if there's something the government hates, it's people that refuse to be exploited any longer. So we wrote a song for those assholes up in D.C. It's time we take this land back!"

All told, nine new bodies added themselves to Dethklok's casualty list by the end of the set. The situation outside degraded completely when Pickles stepped out for a cigarette. Smoke plumed toward the sky from all the burning buildings, mixing with the clouds that swirled together with such loud and frequent thunder they might've been grinding against one another. Ambulances and police skid to a halt in front of the venue, but the show-goers completely disregarded their authority. The spirit of anarchy was birthed, all thanks to some kid.

Some kid that Pickles really needed to talk to, that is.

He took the back alley again, reminded his obstacles of his previous bribes, and sought the band out. He had no idea what to say to Nathan, since the guy probably got approached all the time, but the right words would come if something here meant to give.

"Who're you? How did you get back here?" Despite everything he incited, Nathan remained nonchalant, as if outside, the world resumed its stupidly hot and humid night.

"You guys wanna get some beers? I'll buy you all you want. Or tequila, whisky, whetever floats yer boat. Heh."

"You gotta be one rich schon of a bitcsh."

"I am."

"I'm game, then." Murderface looked to Nathan, waiting for the final verdict. The vocalist threw the towel from around his neck to the floor.

"Just answer one question." Nathan leaned forward on his knees. "Are you going to get us really, really drunk and then get us to sign some shitty record deal?"

"Dood, I don' werk fer no label."

Nathan stared a little while longer. "Okay. Then we'll go."

Thanks to all the people in the streets, they had no chance to use the vehicle they came in. Adding to the chaos was rain and wind, both of which Nathan seemed impervious to. While Pickles and the other three members of the band clutched their arms to their chest, Nathan strode along as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Perhaps, judging by the trail of destruction left behind, this  _was_  a normal day for Nathan.

They wound up at the bar Pickles started his night at. The television played footage of the carnage; despite that and the fact that all the patrons left, most likely to join in on the fun, the bartender apparently had no clue. "Hey, you're that band! First round's on the house."

"Nah, chief. I got it." Pickles leaned against the bar. "Start a tab and throw whetever they drink onto it. I'll pay it at the end of the night."

The next few hours passed in a blur of half-assed insults cast in Murderface's direction and empty bottles. Dethklok slowed after the bartender came over with a garbage bag to clear them all away.

Nathan grumbled. "Damn. Look at us, getting all sloppy. So you're really not from a label?"

Pickles shook his head. "Nope. In a band, myself. I was pretty impressed tonight, heh."

"What's your band?"

"Oh. . .prahbly not one you've heard of. But we're on the Filthy Fifty too."

"Did you write that song about getting so wasted you couldn't feel your feet and then they died and went all. . ." Nathan trailed off with a slow blink.

He wasn't much at all like his on-stage persona. Despite the fact that Nathan fronted the most controversial band of their time, he was reserved, cordial, and stumbled over his words. The alcohol only exacerbated those qualities.

"Eh, sure." Better than admitting the truth. Pickles suddenly grew ashamed of the music he played. "You, uh. . .jest throwin' this out there. You ever need another dude in yer band, just call me up."

"What do you play?"

"Guitar and drums. I can sing too."

"Hey. Heeeey." Nathan's eyes lit up and he leaned forward. "Got a—Lawrence, listen to this, listen to this. Pickles, if you fight Lawrence—and win—you can be our drummer."

"What?" Lawrence frowned. "Fuck you, man. You think this redhead can play better than me?"

"He  _doesch_  have a leg advantage. . ." Murderface stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Fuck you too."

"Yeeuh, sure. I'll fight. It's all in good fun."

Nathan couldn't be serious about switching his drummer out so easily, when his band enjoyed such a comfortable level of fame. For all Nathan knew, Pickles bullshitted completely about being in a band and was just some rich kid looking for a tale to tell his buddies later. Indeed, as they all merged in the street, it became all about the fight. Nathan and Murderface provoked them and soon, thanks to some of the night's anarchists recognizing Nathan, they drew a crowd. Pickles figured it'd be a couple punches and then a retreat back inside, but some asshole hollered from the crowd and everyone agreed.

"Fight to the death, c'mon!"

"Bunch of pussies! That's the drummer from Dethklok!"

"Dethklok rules! Kill me!"

Pickles wasn't drunk enough for this. No matter what now, he lost. Certainly Lawrence wouldn't take the fighting to the death thing seriously, but even then, if Pickles won he destroyed one of these peoples' heroes, and if he lost he'd never be taken seriously again.

Truthfully, even though Pickles had a good decade on him in age, he wanted to impress Nathan. Unlike those thirty-one people that killed themselves for this band, Pickles had their undivided attention, front and centre. Nathan knew his name, and liked him as much as someone could after getting him drunk and indulging in a few half-assed, incoherent conversations.

_Crack._

He hesitated too long. Lawrence hopped away, fists up, and smirked at the stream of blood trickling down Pickles' chin. In a flash, Lawrence resembled Seth whenever the asswipe would punch Pickles and then get their parents' attention in time for Pickles to take blame. Summoning every technique and ounce of rage Seth taught him, Pickles lunged. These guys wanted to see a fight? Well, they wouldn't be disappointed.

Despite his standing in a glam metal band, Pickles could hold his own. Going on stage with high heels taught him footing, teasing and tugging his hair before his hairline receded made him understand the value of going for the head, and his unresolved, violent thoughts crept to the surface. He didn't care if he fought a one-legged drunk, he'd be shown no mercy.

Lawrence wouldn't go down that easily. Every time Pickles had him pinned, he somehow managed to slip away. Pickles' arms got scraped up from his many trips against the concrete, and his vision grew obscured as blood from his brow blinded him. Frustration welled up in Pickles' stomach when he advanced again. This time, instead of receiving a punch in kind, his fingers met resistance and then warmed in a goopy liquid.

Lawrence screamed and hopped backwards. "My eyes! My fuckin' eyes are gone!"

Pickles shook his hand and what remained splattered onto the ground. The crowd silenced, stunned, and then someone else yelled, "Finish him off!"

And then a variation of weapons clattered against the concrete. The fight left Pickles now that his opponent had been waylaid, but his gaze locked again with Nathan's and the reminder to impress the frontman swelled back into existence. Nathan rubbed his chin, as though considering what he witnessed, but he didn't mirror the complete horror written all over Murderface and Magnus. Without further thought, Pickles picked up the crowbar by his feet and advanced on the writhing drummer.

The first strike dead in the forehead twitched Lawrence's leg, and the second stilled him. But Pickles didn't stop. He brought the crowbar down over and over again, until he counted all of Lawrence's strewn teeth and saw the place where his thoughts once lived. Pieces of skull littered the ground around them, the crowd still cheered him on, and then the sirens started up again.

As if a reminder, the audience spread out and commenced their looting, arson, and general destruction. Suddenly exhausted, Pickles had no choice but to go along with the strong hand around his upper arm and be drug back into the shadows to hide as a couple cops advanced on Lawrence's mutilated corpse.

"He killed our drummer," Murderface pointed out unnecessarily in a whisper.

Nathan stared at Pickles. "Wasn't serious. Not really, anyway. Guess you'd better be a damn good drummer. We got a gig in Panama City in three days."


	10. CFO

Charles straightened his tie as he stepped into his office. The teenaged boy sitting opposite his desk visibly shook, blood trickling from his nose. "You, uh, sure you don't want to call your parents?"

"I keep trying, but your phone doesn't work!"

"Shame." Charles folded his hands behind his back. "I'm satisfied with how this went, anyway. If you've got nothing else to say, then perhaps we should wrap things up."

"I w-wanna go home. . ." the boy sniffled. Warm urine pooled on his seat. "I'm sorry."

"So you're never going to come back here, right?"

"No."

"And you know what happens if I see that you haven't kept your word?"

He sobbed in response.

"All right then. . .Kevin." Charles adjusted his glasses as he read the name on the identification provided. "Here's your things back, plus a five dollar gift card for Hot Topic. Although this entire circumstance is unfortunate, I encourage you to shop the proper way. See where it gets you."

"Th-thank you." Kevin limped away.

Charles followed him out to make sure he found the exit all right. A couple shoppers watched boredly, one of them a child with a lollipop the size of his head. He looked away quickly when his gaze met Charles'.

"Bit harsh, wasn't it?" One of the cashiers asked.

"The ends justify the means. You watch: we'll never have another kid in here trying to steal merchandise. By the end of the day, every wayward teenager in the area will know this isn't a place to fuck around."

"You don't think you'll get sued, or something?"

"That limp'll clear up before he leaves the mall, and it'll wind up his word against mine. I've got security footage, he's got nothing but a presumed juvenile record." Charles restored his suit jacket and adjusted the collar. "I'm going for lunch."

The lunch rush hit Therion Mall worst at the food court, where Charles wound up. Not many businesses remained in the aging building, which diverted shoppers elsewhere. Regardless, the Baltimore branch of Mötley Shües did all right by the books. It was a far cry from the life Charles used to lead, a waste for a degree from Georgetown, but it paid the bills until better came along. His pre-law study at NYU had to be worth  _something_.

Not a day went by that he didn't think about his dismissal from the CIA. He had it all: a job he enjoyed, opportunities, and benefits. Now what? He slipped into a routine of waking up, dealing with traffic, hanging out at this horrendous place, going through the motions of accounting needs, and then eventually going home to his empty apartment and the most expensive bottle of brandy his budget allowed. A kid trying to sneak a pair of Converse into his jacket broke the monotony nicely, at least. Not to mention, it contributed to his reputation as a well-dressed man in a slummy neighbourhood not meant to be messed with. Local desperadoes only ever attempted one mugging on him, and they more than likely still regretted that hare-brained decision.

He collected a sandwich and salad from the Iron Butterfly Garden Deli and returned to his office. A weaving individual on the security cameras caught his attention, as well as the unmistakeable liquor bottle being toted around. Hm. Maybe he ought to help out his already overwhelmed employees, and make sure nothing wound up broken.

"You got. . .lots'a. . ." The dreadlocked redhead trailed off when he saw Charles. "Heey, chief. Yer the boss? Thet was quick."

"He was asking for you." The cashier busied himself elsewhere in the store, now that Charles had it under control.

"What can I help you with?"

"I'm looking fer. . .new shoes."

"That's what we sell."

"No shit! I was jest lookin' around and woooow." He stumbled sideways and caught himself. "Whet's yer name? I'm Piiiickles the Druuummeeeer, doodily whetever."

"Charles." He cleared his throat. "What exactly are you looking for?"

"I need new shoes like sneakers 'cause these ain't so good fer playin'." Pickles pointed at the cowboy boots poking out from the bottom of his jeans. "I keep buyin' shoes but I keep losin' em. . ."

"Maybe you wouldn't if you tied them to your feet."

"Heh! Yer funny."

The drunk seemed harmless enough, at least. Charles waved the cashier over and stood back while he found his size and started bringing shoes over to the planted drummer. Pickles emitted a near constant reedy note, sometimes attempting to make comprehensible words but for the most part making no sense whatsoever.

A familiar voice Charles hadn't heard in nearly three years caught his attention. Sure enough, Nathan Explosion stood in his store. He somehow managed to bulk up even more since their afternoon together in the Gulf, and he'd grown his hair long. Although Charles casually watched Nathan's band on the news, he never thought he'd see him in real life again. William Murderface crossed his arms while Magnus tucked a hand into his pocket.

"Hey, you. Yeah, you there." Nathan placed a hand palm-down on the counter. "Seen a drunk guy 'bout this tall? Dreadlocks, slurry?"

"Over heeere, Nate'n!" Pickles hollered across the store. "I'm buyin' shooooes!"

With nowhere to hide, Charles turned his back and pretended to be interested in ties. His suit stuck out like a sore thumb, though. When he glanced around to see if he had a clear shot at his office and abandoned lunch therein, he mentally cursed as Nathan's bright green eyes drilled into his face. Damn it.

"Hey, I know you." Nathan pointed at him. "You're that guy."

"Yes. . .that guy."

"Hey guys. Hey." Nathan chuckled. "Murderface, it's Mulder."

"Mulder?"

"Muuuulder. Like the X-Files."

"I don't get it."

Nathan punched Murderface in the shoulder and got one back, although apparently didn't feel it for all his reaction. "Sorry, What's-Your-Name. Couldn't resist."

"I should point out to you that Mulder belongs to the FBI, while I worked for the CIA. I'm afraid your. . .joke was incorrectly placed."

"Ohhhhh!" Murderface's face lit up with comprehension. "Becausche he'sch a fed!

"Hey, Schuit." The bassist put an arm around Charles' shoulders, exposing him to repulsive body odour. Charles kept a straight face. "When you go back to Congressch, why don't you take a little messchage for usch?"

"I, uh, don't belong to Congress. And would you mind? You're spitting on my suit."

"So what're you doing here anyway?" Nathan asked. "Oh no, no wait, let me guess. Are you following someone? Can we help, because that would be totally fucking awesome, I always wanted to tackle someone in a mall."

"Nathan, don't! He'sch probably watching  _usch_ , if he worksch for the government."

Nathan's grin slipped away. "That true?"

"No. I don't work for the CIA anymore." Charles really didn't want to admit how far he'd fallen since then. "My superiors blamed me for all those ships that blew up in the Gulf, so I was, uh. . .let go."

"Well, you  _did_  tell them it was safe, so. . ."

"No I didn't, that's the point."

"But you were going to, whether or not you put your report in."

"And how was I to know—why are you arguing with me, anyway?"

"Juscht to let you know," Murderface interjected. "I don't think you're that bad a guy. Schorry about the whole fed thing. That's pretty cool, that you blew all thosche schipsch up. And you didn't even go to jail. Aweschome."

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd almost rather have gone to jail than engage in this banal conversation.

"So what're you doing now, then? This place doesn't really look like your scene."

To spare himself the embarrassment, Charles lied quietly enough for his employees to not hear. "Day off, so I thought I might come buy. . .a new tie, or rather."

"Hm."

"And yourself? I've seen your band on the news, of course."

"Yeah. We're playing a gig tonight down the street. Trying to find some fucking accountant that told us her office was around here, but now I'm starting to think she lied. Fucking figures."

"What for, if I may ask?" Shouldn't Nathan have someone closer to home that took care of that?

Our manager wasn't very good about keeping track of our expenses. We just fired his ass. Need to get a professional opinion."

"We're broke!" Murderface loudly supplied. "What'sch with all the questionsch? We don't even know you."

Charles decided then and there to ignore anything and everything Murderface ever said to him. "I believe there's an office further down the mall, but if you'd rather not pay for her services, I'll go over everything for you."

"For free?"

"Sure."

"Sounds good to me." Nathan shrugged. "Can't really sit down with you, though. We gotta go start getting ready."

"Of course. I'll get everything back to you after your show tonight."

"That soon, huh?" Nathan crossed his arms. "Don't really know what to say. Thank you."

Charles followed them out to the parking lot and took a box crammed full of receipts and pay stubs from Nathan. Why exactly did he volunteer so easily for this? Dethklok lacked any hint of manners beyond the basics, so he more than likely wouldn't receive any more thanks for his work. Going over their finances from as far back as the band's birth would overwhelm anyone less than himself, and would be damn near impossible for them to organize within ten hours. But Charles was a master at sniffing out opportunity, and he caught a whiff here. Despite the growing storm beating the east coast as Dethklok breached Florida's borders, they'd neither landed a record deal (thanks to Nathan passing up every offer) and they didn't have a contracted manager. Even from a distance, Charles could see that they struggled to keep up to their fame. They did fine musically, but music meant nothing when they couldn't keep their bank accounts straight.

Charles disassembled the mess in his office, and soon piles of paper covered his desk. He divided first into fiscal periods, then whittled down to weeks. One of his employees came by at five to tell him they were off, so Charles boxed everything up again and took it home. A glass of brandy helped expedite the process, so by ten o'clock, he had a strong idea of where Dethklok stood financially and how he could explain it to Nathan in terms he might understand.

Road blocks surrounding their gig forced Charles to park and carry his box the rest of the way to their meeting place. He hadn't visited such a slummy place since his college days, and even that was an accident. Dethklok drew Charles in as the loudest table in the place, sweaty, stinky, and celebrating yet another killer night.

"Sit down, have a beer with us!" Nathan pushed Murderface off the seat beside him to the floor, where the bassist grumbled. Rather than take the spot, Charles pulled a chair over.

"So I managed to organize your band finances as well as your personal finances, as far as I can fathom since you guys, uh, took the road." Nathan blinked slowly, Magnus had his sights on some lady up by the bar, and Pickles grinned crookedly. "Would you rather do this in the morning, when you four are sober?"

"I think we can handle it," Nathan said. "But just band stuff. I'm embarrassed about the state of my wallet. Just putting that out there."

"Yeah, me too," Murderface agreed.

"I'd rather discuss that in private."

"I'm cool wid it. . ." Pickles' chin slumped against his chest and he promptly fell asleep.

"Right. So for Dethklok. . ." Charles unloaded the largest file from the top of the box. "Do you want me to go into specifics, or just a general idea?"

" _Very_  general."

"To put it most simply, you are irresponsible spenders. I'm actually surprised that you somehow manage to scrounge up money for food and gas."

Murderface plunged a knife into the table. "How  _dare_  you. We're  _muschischians_. We schouldn't worry about money."

"It has the power to stop you, William."

"We make money at our gigsch."

"And then you spend it. . .and some. Honestly, I think the only reason you're staying afloat right now is because money has been coming out of Pickles' account." Charles nodded at the lightly snoring drummer.

"He likesch it!"

"Yeah!" Nathan agreed. "You know, so long as he doesn't know about it."

"You've. . .been stealing from your bandmate." Charles sighed. "And have you considered the repercussions? What if he  _does_  find out?"

"Hm. . .I guess that might be bad."

"Yes, Nathan. It would be. He may quit."

Nathan bowed his head in thought, eyes darting, then he slammed a fist down onto the table. "Goddamn it! Why does this have to be so hard?"

"Now that you have achieved a reasonable level of success, you have more money coming in and out than you can be bothered to track. Plus, you need to practice, organize gigs, write songs—"

"Dear God, it's so much!" Nathan's head fell into his hands. Dramatics past, he pointed at Charles. "You. You get this shit. You need to help us!"

"Yeah, help usch! We're too fucking schtupid!"

"Yeah!"

Pickles' head snapped up. "Yeeuh, whetever yer yelling about!"

"It's probably for the best," Magnus spoke up. "Like I've been saying, we need a new manager."

"Guess we shouldn't have expected so much from a hitchhiker. But  _I_  was the real manager. Me. I did all the work. Uh. . .hm. Guess I really didn't." Nathan shrugged. "I like it better when you don't talk."

"Yeeuh, you just play that little widdle guitar." Pickles strummed a tiny, imaginary guitar. "Thet's whet yer here fer, right? Heh."

"I've been in the band longer than you!"

"Yeah, but Picklesch killed a—oh. . ." Murderface trailed off with a glance at Charles.

"It might interest you to know I studied law briefly, along with business. I never attended a proper law school or wrote a bar exam, but—"

"That'sch good enough for me."

"Whoa. Guys. We have a  _lawyer_." Nathan nudged Murderface. "Hey, Lawyer—"

"Call me Charles, Nathan."

"The first thing I command you to do is get sloppy fucking drunk with us."

"I would rather not. I have a busy day tomorrow, getting my affairs in order. I assume I'm uprooting, so—"

"You're no fun!" Murderface hollered.

"Nathan, when you have a moment, we should draw up my contract—"

"Ischn't that  _your_  job, now?"

"I suppose, but I would assume that since you're hiring me you at least will want to glance it over, maybe have some input before we all sign?"

"Hm. I guess so. Why don't you draft it up and then we'll do that. Tomorrow, or something."

"I'll get in contact with you. Where are you staying?"

"Honestly we'll probably still be here."

"I see. Well, have a good night and don't get  _too_  wasted. You have a show in Philadelphia to consider."

"He'sch definitely our manager," Murderface muttered under his breath to Nathan. "Already schitting all over our fun."

". . .Right. Goodbye."

Charles packed the box back toward his car. Part of him panicked that he'd taken on such a risky job—both in its security and nature—and yet, he like so many other people had a very good feeling about this band. It wasn't very common for an unsigned group with no merchandise or recorded material to cause such a stir. If they kept on this path of destruction, then they needed someone like him. Already, Charles drew up the notion of a pain waiver, so that Dethklok couldn't be held responsible for any unfortunate occurrences during their shows.

Yes, tomorrow would be a whirlwind of a day. Although he had Dethklok's financial records organized, the real challenge began in keeping it on their minds and convincing them to keep receipts. He himself needed to wrap his mind around the fact that he would be moving to Florida. . .and in the meantime, going on the road with four reckless rock stars.


	11. December 21st

The frozen ground surrounding Toki's tunnel stilled like ice, allowing not even the dripping sound of water to keep him company. He curled up in a ball on the pile of hay provided by his parents and coddled the clown doll he created out of utmost desperation for some sort of contact.

Time didn't exist down here like up at the surface. He only got let out to do his chores and eat, then he got sent back down. His father grew more obsessed with his spiritual cleansing, especially since the months, weeks, and days counting down to Toki's fifteenth birthday whittled away. Although Toki appreciated how Skwisgaar tried to help, he'd done more harm than good. His parents never saw the Swede, but they could tell that Toki hid something. Thus he went into his punishment hole until he made things right with Lucifer. What his parents couldn't understand—wouldn't, ever—was that having Skwisgaar in his life was something He not only approved of, but planned.

Maybe things would clear up tonight. It was, after all, the solstice: Toki's birthday. And now that darkness fell, it couldn't be long until his mother dressed him in the robes she made and he'd finally see the church's interior. Now that he became a full member, he might be allowed back in the house.

Wood shifted against cement, prompting Toki to stash his clown and stand beneath the opening. A sliver of light appeared, followed by his parents' silhouettes. Their robes blew in the wind.

"It's time."

Toki shivered as the wind sent tufts of snow against his bare skin. The robes his mother slipped over his head helped, but barely. He'd already caught chill. The rest of the Haven's portion of the congregation stood around them, waiting. Despite his lack of energy and intense hunger pangs, Toki fell into step on the way into Lillehammer. He should be ecstatic, but he was anything but.

 _Was_  this how he wanted to spend his life? Damn Skwisgaar, for vocalizing the possibility of doing anything else! If anything,  _that_  made him miserable. If he hadn't just  _shown up_  in the middle of the night, Toki would eat dinner with his parents, get to sleep in his own bed, and maybe even have earned his guitar back by now. And yet. . .Skwisgaar had his reasons, which Toki understood completely. Skwisgaar came out of concern, not for harm, and Toki had the choice to leave with him. Maybe he should've taken it, rather than panicking at the last moment. If he knew what would happen between then and now, he wouldn't have looked back as he followed the blond through knee-deep snow.

The congregation fanned out when they stepped inside the church, busying themselves with a fire and candles. Aslaug, Anya, and Toki marched straight for the front.

"Do you want me to help with anything?"

"Just relax, my little son. This is a big night for you." Aslaug placed a cold hand on Toki's shoulder.

The church basked in a dim glow, wooden pews lined up before the altar where Aslaug delivered his sermons. It didn't look much different that Toki imagined, and any wonderment fled him completely. He looked forward to this simply because there was nothing else to look forward to, and now that he got here, he really didn't want anything to do with it. He should've gone with Skwisgaar. It was too late for regret, but Toki experienced it so acutely that the corners of his mouth pulled involuntarily downward. He'd cry, if he had the energy and the privacy.

"Come up front with me." Aslaug ushered Toki along and instructed him into his standard prayer form beside his podium. The congregation, now expanded with the other villages' arrivals, followed suit in the pews. Toki closed his eyes and pretended to be anywhere, anywhere but here.

"Fifteen years is a long time to wait," Aslaug stated to all. "I commend you all for sharing my patience as my son grew up. We should stall no further and get underway."

Toki suppressed a shudder as his father stood behind him. Unsure what was to come, he opened one eye. His father's shadow caught his breath and stilled his heart. From the candlelight behind, he could see Aslaug lift both hands above his head, and he held something. He rolled to the right out of instinct, and just in time. Aslaug stumbled forward with his dagger, then regained his balance. "Stay calm, Toki. It needs to be done!"

"No!" Toki shimmied backward, caught on his robes. "What're you doing?"

Without waiting for an answer, Toki scrambled to his feet and sought an exit. The only door was at the back, and now his father's followers rose to their feet. With no other option, Toki wrapped his robes around his face and bolted for the window. He waited for the piercing sensation of glass in his side, but nothing came as he rolled off a pile of snow. Operating on pure adrenaline and aware his father wouldn't give up so easily, he bolted for the forest. He needed to find somewhere to hide, maybe to outrun him. No matter how much Toki suffered in life, he didn't want to die.

The only light once Toki breached town limits was the single torch to the rear illuminating his father's position. Toki ran into trees, tripped over branches, struggled through the snow, and lost the fear-inspired rush that kept him going. He was so hungry, so tired, so sore, and he couldn't fight anymore. Maybe he could just lay in the snow and die before the Reverend caught up. How could he get away when he'd just be tracked like an animal? His father might not be as strong as him, but he had endurance on his side.

Toki shivered where he collapsed, rushing to accept his fate as his father's torch illuminated the bottom hems of his robe. He'd made no progress as Aslaug rolled him over onto his back and pulled his dagger back out.

"I'm sorry, my son." Aslaug exhaled shortly. "I don't want this anymore than you, but it's what needs to happen. You must understand, Lucifer came to me on the day of your birth—"

"This is not what I intended. . ."

The hoarse voice made Toki jump, but Aslaug didn't at all seem fazed. Toki struggled to see the space of woods his father's torch lit up, and therein stood an old man, white hair billowing in the wind.

"Lucifer!" Aslaug dropped to his knees, dagger disappearing into the snow. "It's just like you said, you'd come back, not just your voice—!"

"That is not my name, and you have understood wrong."

"You said on my son's fifteenth birthday I'd sacrifice him for a greater good!"

"Yes, that is still true. . ."

Something collided with the back of Aslaug's head, dropping him down onto Toki. At first he thought the old man somehow did it, but when Toki looked over again, he'd disappeared. Terrified but still weak, Toki struggled to push his father's body off him so that he could commence his escape. Help came in that task and he realized he didn't have to do it alone.

"Are you okay?"

"Skwisgaar?"

"Ja, I followed you two. Hit him with my guitar." He paused. "Who was that guy over there?"

Toki didn't answer, only grappled in the air for Skwisgaar's extended hand. The moon peeked out behind a cloud just enough for Toki to see the Swede's silhouette.

"Can you walk?"

"No. . ." Toki concentrated on standing while Skwisgaar loaded him with his guitar.

"Get on my back. Let's get out of here."

Toki draped his arms around Skwisgaar's neck and nuzzled his parka's soft hood. The smallest amount of comfort touched his heart in a way that warmed his entire chest. Exhausted, all he could do was wipe at his face so that his tears wouldn't freeze against his skin. He slipped in and out of sleep, trusting Skwisgaar to take him somewhere safe, and came to when they wandered into a lit neighbourhood. Skwisgaar resituated Toki as he knocked at one of the houses.

"Skwisgaar, you know you're—" A middle-aged woman answered the door. "Oh my. Who's this?"

Toki missed the next bit, waking again in a warm room when Skwisgaar said his name. "I need to put you down."

Toki trembled all over and took off Skwisgaar's guitar. "Where are we?"

The Swede stretched, hands on the small of his back. "You'll be safe here. Get some rest, ah? You're a lot thinner than the last time I saw you."

Toki didn't need to be told twice. Even though he'd come to a stranger's home, he disrobed once Skwisgaar left and crawled in under the covers. A nearly dreamless state took him under. Faces passed before his mind's eye, specifically that of the old man that distracted his father long enough for Skwisgaar to strike. Toki woke up a couple times, but promptly rolled over and fell back asleep. He sure wished he had his clown, the only thing he missed about home.

Eventually, he couldn't sleep any longer. He blinked in the sunlight pouring through the windows, slowly remembering the sequence of events that brought him here. A plucky noise, like strings, summoned his curiosity.

"Oh look, you're awake." Skwisgaar sat in an armchair in the corner, feet propped up on the ottoman. His fingers flew over the frets. "How're you feeling?"

"Fuzzy." Toki rubbed his head. "How long have you been in here?"

"Just a few minutes. Figured if you didn't wake up soon, I'd have to make sure you still breathed."

"Did I sleep long?"

"A solid twelve hours."

Toki rested his head back on the pillow, sudden pit in his stomach. He escaped his father's clutches, sure, but what now? Where did he go, if not home? Would Skwisgaar take him away from here?

"Are you hungry?"

" _So_ hungry."

"Why don't you get dressed and come out to the kitchen? We'll find something to eat. Eh. . ." Skwisgaar eyed the robes on the floor. "Hold on a moment."

Even with his recent growth spurt, Skwisgaar's clothes were too big for Toki. The last hole on his belt at least kept the jeans on his hips. Out in the kitchen, Skwisgaar stood before the open fridge with his hip popped and neck craned downward.

"Where's your lady friend?"

"Work."

"I feel bad to eat her food."

"She said you could have whatever."

Whatever turned out to be a lot. Skwisgaar made a jug of juice while Toki ate as many smørbrød as he could stuff in his face. Following that was smoked salmon, lingonberries, norvegia, and then pastries.

All the while, Skwisgaar worked on a pot of coffee. "Getting full?"

"Ja. . ." Maybe he ate too much. Toki rubbed his bloated belly.

Skwisgaar ran a bath teeming with bubbles and ushered Toki in. He didn't much like being alone right now, but sliding under the water and stacking the bubbles on top of his head provided suitable entertainment. How did he ever live without soft towels and fresh smelling clothes? When he emerged later, dirt gone from under his nails and face scrubbed clean, he felt like a million kroner.

"Come here, ah? Your hair's one big tangled mess."

Toki braced himself for a rough brush but furrowed his brow as Skwisgaar splat something goopy onto his head. "What's that?"

"It'll make it easier to get all the tangles out."

Toki sat still on the floor between Skwisgaar's legs. "Why're you doing all this? I can't believe anyone would be so nice to someone else."

"That's because you lived with a bunch of assholes."

"So are people really this nice to each other?"

"Well. . .not all the time, I guess. I feel kind of bad."

"Why?"

"Because I should've made you come with me, in the spring."

"Nothing's your fault."

"I know, but I still need to make it right."

"How did you even find me?"

"Yesterday was your birthday and you mentioned you'd be getting into your church, so I thought I'd swing by to see if you were okay. Then I saw you fall out the window, so I followed your dad after you."

"Wowee. . .you remembered my birthday?"

"Uh. . .happy belated?"

"Thank you."

With Toki's hair completely saturated, Skwisgaar took a comb to the ends and worked his way back toward the scalp. "I have a proposition for you."

"What's that?"

"Smugly Dismissed broke up about a month ago. Creative differences, all that bullshit." The Swede huffed. "Have you heard about a band named Dethklok?"

"I haven't heard about anything since you left."

"Well, they're this death metal band over in the United States that's getting pretty big. Do you remember at the festival in Göteburg, those guys I was with at the bar?"

"Ja."

"They're in Dethklok. Nat'an told me to give him a call if I ever changed my mind about playing with him, and I don't think I'd be going across the ocean for nothing, now. Would you want to come with me?"

"How far is it?"

"Pretty far. You'd have to sit on a plane overnight."

"I think I could handle that. . .but I still don't think you should have to take care of me."

"We could find something for you to do, if it makes you feel better. Roadie and stuff. Set up the equipment."

As grateful as Toki was for the opportunity, he didn't feel right riding Skwisgaar's coattails that far along. Really, the bed, bath, food, and pampering already pushed it. "I don't know. . ."

"It's an easy ja."

"Maybe. I need to think about it. There's  _lots_ I need to think about."

"I'm going back to Göteburg this afternoon. Would you at least come that far, for now?"

"Ja." If Toki stayed in Lillehammer, he'd wind up going home, and who knew what would entail then? Maybe now, since the entity Aslaug thought they worshipped revealed himself and foiled the plan his father waited fifteen years to execute, things would get easier.

"Am I pulling too hard?" Skwisgaar asked when Toki sniffled.

"Nej. I'm just. . .you were right."

"About what?"

"Lucifer isn't real."

"Ja," Skwisgaar easily accepted.

"You saw that man in the snow, last night? With the white hair? That's who my father thought was Lucifer. Apparently he's been listening wrong, all these years." Toki pulled his knees up against his chest. "All this time, he's been doing the wrong thing. I knew it, but I had to live through all that. I could've been a normal kid. And now I'll never get any of those years back."

"That's a pretty heavy thought for someone as young as you."

"But you already told me the truth, and I didn't listen. Why am I so stupid?"

"There's just some things in life we have to learn on our own. Nobody can tell us until we see it for ourselves. It's nothing to do with being smart or stupid." Skwisgaar ran his comb through Toki's hair from his temples to the nape of his neck. "There, all done. Come up to the sink. I'll rinse this crud out."


	12. New Addition

What a night. . .and yet Murderface somehow managed to not feel like shit when he woke up the following afternoon. He actually found himself in his own bed, rather than the couch or kitchen floor. The wall muffled the TV, so someone else beat him to it. He dressed and found Nathan, dark circles around his eyes, supine with his forearm laid across his forehead.

"Oh my god I feel like shit. I'm never drinking that much again," Nathan practically whispered. "Don't turn any lights on. Or open the blinds. Fuck."

"I could eat. You want to come and get schome food?"

Nathan dry-heaved in response, so Murderface set out on his own to find some lunch. When he returned half an hour later, both Pickles and Magnus roused, although didn't get any further than Nathan. Magnus looked a little worse for wear, while Pickles, like Murderface, seemed pretty rested. He tried to engage Nathan in conversation about the show, but all he got were grunts and mumbles.

Murderface cleared all the shit off the kitchen table with one wide swipe of his arm and set up with his burgers. Just as he was about to bite into the first one, the phone rang. "Would schomeone get that?"

"Yer reet there," Pickles replied, then apologized to Nathan for raising his voice.

"It's probably just fucking Offdensen. Ow." Nathan rubbed his head.

"What doesch he expect from usch? We're done playing schowsch for now. We made that very clear, didn't we?"

"Hey. You've reached Dethklok— _Piiiiiickleeeeees_ —shut up, I'm doing this by myself. Yeah. Nathan, Pickles, Murderface, you get it we all have names. Leave a message and if we feel like it we'll call you back."

"Ja, hi Nat'an, dis am Skwisgaar Skwigelf. We meets in Göteburg—"

"Yih-tih-borge? Am I sayin' thet right?" Pickles asked.

God damn it. Murderface nearly managed to forget about that Swedish dildo. "-Got dis numbers from your mom, or whoever. I's in Tampa, at de airport. Pick ups if you's dere, if not I guess I hangs out here and tries you again later—"

Nathan practically leapt for the phone in order to catch it before Skwisgaar hung up. "Hey. You still there?"

Pissed off, Murderface hunkered down on his burgers and tried to ignore the conversation. Fucking hell. He really didn't want that asshole hanging around here. And no doubt Nathan still wanted him in his band. Skwisgaar was good, no denying that, but they already had a decent guitarist. Why bother with a second?

Nathan hung up. "Guess I'm going to the airport. Gonna pick Skwisgaar up."

"You're not scheriousch! What a fucking dildo!"

"Yeeuh, who's this guy?" Pickles peered over the back of the couch.

"Thisch asschole guitarischt that we met in Schweden." Murderface crossed his arms. "Why do we need two? Magnusch is good enough!"

"Yeah, aren't I?"

"Two guitarists are better than one. It'll make a heavier sound. Once you play with this guy, you'll want him on board," Nathan directed toward the living room. "He's a fucking amazing player. Better than Magnus. No offence."

"Hey, fuck you! I can play just fine."

"Yeah, well. . .I have the final say. So we'll try him out and see what happens. Just don't tell him that. Okay, Murderface?"

"I wouldn't schay anything."

"That's funny, because that's exactly what you'll do. I'll put it to you this way: you say anything, and you're out. I'm serious."

Murderface migrated to the living room once Nathan's rumbling bike faded away down the street. Magnus didn't seem anymore impressed than he, although Pickles appeared indifferent. "I can't believe thisch. Scheriouschly, think about what we had to do to get into the band. And he'sch going to let that prick juscht walk in and take charge!"

"Yeeuh, I killed a dood!"

"I tried out." Magnus studied Murderface. "But if I remember correctly, Nathan mentioned that he just let you in."

"I co-founded the band."

"Doesn't say much about your playing. I could think up five bass players off the top of my head that're better than you."

Murderface narrowed his eyes. "Fuck you. I fought my way in juscht like you two!"

"Yeeuh, you prahbly annoyed the crap out of him until he said okay."

Apparently no sympathy could be spared in this house. Oh well, Pickles and Magnus would see soon enough that he was right, probably as soon as that blond asshole set foot inside the house. In order to escape his other bandmates, Murderface retreated to sulk in his room. Today sucked. He should've known it was too good to be true when he woke up and felt like it might go all right.

Nathan's bike rumbled again outside, and then conversation came from down the hall. No yelling yet, but Murderface could hear the band's potential new addition. "Guessch I've already been forgotten. . ."

A loud pounding came at the door. "Hey, get out here. We're gonna jam."

"Juscht leave me alone. I know you don't really want me to come play."

"I'm not going to say it again, Murderface. Come downstairs when you're done pouting."

Murderface crossed his arms stubbornly as Nathan left, then listened to what floated up through the floor. Even though yet again awed by Skwisgaar's ability to play his instrument, Murderface couldn't help but hate him. Magnus seemed so slow, so amateur in comparison, and the band sounded too good for Murderface to admit Nathan might be right. Damn. Looked like Skwisgaar was staying.

"Aw, look who finallys decide to show up." Skwisgaar tuned his guitar while sitting on his amp. "De bigs crybaby."

"Fuck you, dildo."

"Ams dat any way to speak to your new lead guitarist?"

Magnus wouldn't look up from his beer, slouched on the couch. No doubt he, like Murderface, felt very threatened. "Scho what doesch thisch all mean, Nathan?"

"Skwisgaar's lead, Magnus is going to play rhythm. Nothing personal, right?" Nathan asked the brunet guitarist. "Just the way it goes."

"Ja, can'ts have someone better on rhythm guitar, it makes no sense dat way."

Magnus choked out an agreement, but was still definitely upset. Murderface followed him upstairs and leaned against the wall as the man shoved his boots on. "Where you going?"

"A bar. Somewhere. I don't know."

"I'll come with you. Let'sch ditch thosche asscholes."

No bars were open yet, which led them instead to a liquor store followed by the dugout of a baseball field. "Scho what do you really think about all thisch?"

"Little pissed about how sudden it was, but he  _is_  better than me. I can't deny that."

"But you were here firscht."

"It's Nathan's band. He told me straight up when I joined that the line up could change anytime."

He probably still had Skwisgaar on the brain then, because Murderface never experienced that. Nor had Pickles, as far as he could surmise. "It'sch juscht bullschit. That dick'sch been in bandsch already, and he'sch going to expect Dethklok to be hisch band, too. Maybe he and Nathan will fight about it."

"You're sure not very keen on that guy, huh?"

"He'sch an asschole."

"But so are you, and that has nothing to do with the music. Not really. Nathan's right. We shouldn't take this so personally."

"Lischten to you, taking thisch lying down like a dog! We have a good thing here! Why schould anything have to change?"

"Nathan wants his band to be the best in the world. Therefore, he's got to have the best musicians. In the grand scheme of things, you and me might not be that. Well, definitely not you. But my point is, we should be lucky that we haven't been replaced."

"But you have been."

"I'm still in the band though, and I can handle that. I think." Magnus drew lengthily from his bottle. "I just need a bit more of this."

"Nathan told Schkwischgaar back in Schweden that he'd let him write the music."

"We all do. That's how it works. Except you. What exactly do you do, again?"

"Fuck you."

Pickles, Nathan, and Skwisgaar were still downstairs when Murderface and Magnus got back home. Judging by Nathan's volume, they either drank or already came up with some pretty good stuff for Dethklok's future material. Magnus retreated to his room and Murderface set up camp in front of the television. His stomach soured with annoyance when loud footsteps and laughter came up the stairs.

"Hey." Nathan stood in front of his show. "We're all gonna go get some drinks. Coming?"

"I'd rather schtay home."

"Your loss, I guess."

"I've already been drinking. Get in line."

"Ah, leaves him." Skwisgaar stepped in beside Nathan. Despite having a couple inches on the bulking man, his thin stature still made him appear smaller. "We has more fun wit'out."

"You know, on schecond thought, maybe I will come."

"See, told you that reverse psychology crap would work." Nathan waved them all along. "Magnus! Get your ass out here!"

Magnus decided not to come, which meant Murderface had to go it alone. Pickles got along with pretty much anybody and Nathan picked up with Skwisgaar as though they'd long been friends, which heightened Murderface's suspicions. Had they kept in contact all this time? But then why didn't Nathan say anything? And why would Skwisgaar call ahead, rather than already have it all planned out? Nathan had a track record of not being entirely straight with Murderface. . .

"We already wrote like five songs," Nathan told Murderface when they found a booth to sit in. Like deja vu, Skwisgaar forewent his beer in order to keep practicing his guitar. "Probably none are keepers, but it's going pretty fucking sweet."

"Why amn'ts dey keepers? Dey was good songs."

"Thisch isch what Nathan alwaysch doesch. Better get usched to it." Might as well get started on the rift between them. "He writesch the bescht fucking schongsch, and then juscht throwsch them in the trasch."

"Because I know we could do better."

"We're never going to have an album at thisch rate."

"And what're you doing to help with that, exactly?" Nathan frowned. "This is my band. We're all clear on that, right?"

"Yeeuh."

"Ja, sures."

"Really?" Murderface asked Skwisgaar. "After all the bandsch you've been in, you're juscht going to let thisch guy call the schotsch?"

"Murderface," Nathan warned him.

"We gots de mutes-kl respekts. The guitar work ams mine, he figures out what he wants. We gots de same ideas pretty much anyway, and we wants Det'klok to be de biggest fuckings band in de woorld. So whatsever. Why don'ts you quit beings de bad guy and have some fun, ah?"

Murderface worked against that out of spite, but eventually he'd drank enough beers to participate in the conversation going back and forth. "I'm juscht not schure learning a schecond language isch all that important. I mean, I already schpeak Englisch. What elsche is there to know?"

"Dere am hundreds of lanes-gidges in de woorld. English amn't the one dat am spoken the most, you knows."

"Oh really, schmarty-pantsch?"

"Ams Chinese."

"Ohhh, see now thet makes sense." Pickles took a sip of his beer. "There's a lot of them guys."

"Scho then why did you learn Englisch in Schwedish school and not Chinesche?"

"English am the most populars secondts lanes-gidge, I t'ink. So you ams right dere. I learns it because it am on the list of t'ing I need to know to gets out of dat terrsible place."

"You wanna know why? Becausche America rulesch." Murderface folded his fingers behind his head.

"I t'inks we learn it because of de English peoples, you know? Likes whats it named after? England am has been more powerfuls and widespread dan America. But you, beings de history buffs you seems to t'ink you are, problies knew dat. England ams de reason why America speaks English in de forst place."

"Yeah but we made it our own. Got our own dictionary and everything."

"I didn'ts learn American English. Dat amn't on the class descripsons."

"Perhapsch that'sch all true hischtorically, but you can't deny that American culture isch more widespread than Englisch culture nowadaysch. We've been schteaming along schince the schecond world war."

"So you am saying dat the war was am good for your countries."

"Schure."

"So you t'ink Hitler and de Japan peoples was maybes pro-Americans?"

Murderface narrowed his eyes. "In a way, I schuppose. What'sch your point?"

Skwisgaar shrugged. "Ja, American cults-curr am pretty big, I guess. Hard nots to be when you gets all dem pretty girls in de bathing suits and gives people a lots of money on credits. Boobs and moneys am all whats people has ever careds about, since we coulds care about somet'ing."

"Well yeah," Nathan agreed. "That's about forty percent the reason why I want to make music. It brings in money and you're like a magnet with the ladies. Just mention you're in a band and boom, they're fucking naked."

"Statstistically speaking, Sweden am got de prettiest goils in the woorld. Deys all tall and blonde wit' blue eyes."

"Oh, like you."

"Hey, fucks you!" Skwisgaar's fingers came to a sudden stop on his guitar. Already used to the twangy sound, Murderface found the air empty without it. "I amn'ts a lady, so shuts de fuck up. Just because I gives even the littlest shits about what I looks like don't makes my dick shrivels up and die. You woulds do well to takes tips for not smellings like a garbage can!"

"Hey!"

All told by the end of the night, even though Murderface remained unsure of Skwisgaar, it maybe wasn't the complete end of the world to have someone new around. Nathan groaned when Skwisgaar claimed to know next to little about the American Civil War, but Murderface took his chance. Nathan and Pickles continued drinking up at the bar and Skwisgaar fell asleep briefly through his spiel, but he did agree to borrow the Ken Burns documentary and give it a shot.

"Holy fucks, I's tired," Skwisgaar mumbled when they got home. "Dis fuckings jet lag am killer. Where does I sleeps, ah?"

"Uhhhh. . ." Nathan was still pretty drunk. "Fuck, we didn't even think about that. Maybe, uh. . .crash on the couch for now and we'll get that all settled later. See if a bed and stuff is in the  _budget_."

"Yeah. . .the  _budget_." Murderface rolled his eyes. Offdensen was like a broken record about that stupid thing.

"Works for me. I sleeps on de stairs for all I cares right now."

The light was still on in Magnus' room, but Murderface passed it by. With his initial protest out of his system, Murderface could see Nathan's rationalization behind getting Skwisgaar on board. For the constant practice the guy did and the songs he wrote (as much as Murderface could remember from Gothenburg), he'd contribute to Dethklok's inevitable success rather than kill it fifty yards from the start gate. Not to mention, he and the Swede shared a common trait—they both liked to argue for the sake of arguing. That would kill a lot of the boring hours.


	13. Culture Shock

_"You're sure this is what you want? I could wait until you get all the proper papers."_

_"Nej. . .you should go alone. You have your thing, I have mine. I need to figure out what I'm going to do."_

_"Are you going to go back home?"_

_"I don't think so. I'll just stick around here. Thank you, Skwisgaar. . .for everything."_

The Swede laid in the dark, back sore from the crummy couch. He couldn't sleep despite how tired he was. Too worried. Toki lived a sheltered life, and now he wandered the world on his own without a shred of street sense. A lot of weird people might take an interest in him. . .

His concern overshadowed his excitement for how smoothly his trip across the ocean went. He got exactly what he expected, in joining Dethklok and securing position as lead guitarist. But what about the boy he left behind? Sure, it was Toki's decision in the end, but maybe Skwisgaar should have been a little more forceful. Maybe he should have waited.

A bedroom door creaked and then heavy footsteps shuffled down the hallway. Skwisgaar stopped practicing his guitar when the living room light blinded him.

"Oh. That's that noise." Nathan turned the light out and carried on for the bathroom.

Skwisgaar sat up and stretched. If the house's other occupants started to rise, then he sure wouldn't get any sleep now. Might as well get busy. Since he had no other opportunity for work as an illegal alien, he needed to put all his energy into making Dethklok powerful enough to take over the world. "So I's been t'inking about some songs."

"Cool. I'll grab a beer and meet you downstairs."

Skwisgaar plugged in and made sure what he heard in his mind sounded as good through the amplifier. When Nathan dropped down beside him, he cleared his throat. "I hads in mind dat one song you wrotes about dying for Det'klok and I rewrote de solos. . ."

Nathan bowed his head to listen. One thing about him that put Skwisgaar a little on edge was that he wasn't very transparent about what he thought. Like the day before, when he liked all the songs they made and then so easily tossed them away. Not that they were Skwisgaar's best, but it was a little disconcerting. No one ever challenged the Swede to better himself, because he always dominated whatever band or scene he affiliated himself with, without even trying.

"Yeah. I think that'll work. Got any rhythm parts to go with it?"

"I's will teach Magnus whenever he am ready."

"Might go wake him up and. . ." Nathan trailed off as a rattling upstairs indicated that someone entered their house. "Oh, fuck. That's probably Offdensen. I forgot to call him back yesterday. Wait, he didn't call,  _you_  called. Wonder what he wants."

"Offsdensen?"

"Our manager. Come on, I guess you should probably meet him."

A suited man with slicked back hair and rectangular frames shrugged off a jacket at the door. "Oh good, you're awake—who's that?"

"This is Skwisgaar. He's our new lead guitarist."

"You never told me you were looking for another member."

"It just kinda happened. We met a while back and I told him that if he ever made it to America he should look me up and be in my band, all that shit."

"Well, it's nice to meet you." Skwisgaar shook Charles' extended hand. "And where are you from?"

"Sweden."

"And I suppose you don't have proper documentation to stay and work in the country?"

"Noes."

"If you're intent on keeping him," Charles directed at Nathan, "then I'll have to borrow him so that I can get started on all that. Where is everyone?"

"Still asleep. It's only like three o'clock."

". . .Right."

"What're you doing here, anyway? What did you need?"

"I thought I'd come collect receipts and do a head count, make sure you all made it home last night."

Pickles and Magnus got woken up in turn, handing over their purchase history for the past week. They shut their doors again as soon as Offdensen finished with them. Murderface had to pry his knife out of his doorframe before he could follow suit.

"If you don't mind, Nathan, I'll borrow your guitarist now. There are several things that need to be done before he goes on stage with you—"

"Yeah, fine. I'm going back to bed."

Skwisgaar wished he had the same option. Instead, he adjusted the passenger seat of Offdensen's car as far back as it would go and continued playing his guitar. He might fall asleep, otherwise. Although he didn't mind the silence beyond the faint noise, Offdensen shifted in isolated awkwardness.

"You, uh, take that with you everywhere?"

"Ja. I always gots to keep pracksicing."

"You must be good if Nathan admitted you so easily."

"Ja. I's problies the fastest guitarist in the woorld. I never meets nobody better than me."

"Ah. I see."

Offdensen, like so many others, obviously assumed Skwisgaar as a pompous, delusional braggart. It didn't offend the Swede like it used to. Wait until this guy saw him on stage, then he'd know what Skwisgaar talked about.

They wound up in an immaculately clean apartment with only an empty bottle of brandy and corresponding glass sitting out on the counter. Skwisgaar followed him into one of the bedrooms, which Offdensen had set up as his office. A calendar on the wall had several dates and places marked earlier in the month, although between now and reaching back a week before Christmas it was mostly blank. He kept his pens all organized, ball point down in their cup, and a pile of unopened mail sat off to the side.

"Take a seat."

Skwisgaar answered Offdensen's questions as best he could in his fatigued state, and while he tried the other man's patience with his tenuous grasp of English legal terms, they both expressed satisfaction as the Swede got a ride back to the band house. Skwisgaar assumed he'd simply be dropped off, but Offdensen followed him inside.

"Oh good, you're all up." Offdensen distracted them from the TV. "Would you all come up to the table, please? There are a few things we need to discuss."

"Yer not gonna let us keep him, are you?" Pickles erupted. "It's like you said, Nate, he's gonna make us send'm back!"

"He's a good fucking player. Sure he's Swedish and all that, but he needs to stay!"

"I am not making you. . . _return_. . .Skwisgaar." Offdensen closed his eyes briefly. "We merely need to discuss the schedule and housing."

"Housing?"

"This place isn't big enough for five people. I've looked over the budget and you have enough for a five-bedroom—"

"Here he goesch with the  _budget_  again," Murderface muttered under his breath to Magnus.

However the rest of Dethklok treated their manager, Skwisgaar trusted in him to get everything done. He'd experienced the full range of band management types and all of them failed for the most part except the ones that treated the band like a business. Skwisgaar stayed quiet through his first band meeting except to confirm he didn't have a bed yet, then fell asleep on the couch when Offdensen got all he needed from them and the band returned to their previous occupation.

The next few weeks became a blur as Skwisgaar dealt with jet lag and adjusting to the others' schedule and temperaments. The only houses Offdensen could find large enough for them to rent situated in well-to-do neighbourhoods, of which no landlord would hand over the keys for once they realized just who inquired upon them. Instead, the band packed their shit up and headed for a nearby apartment building, where Offdensen leased a couple neighbouring suites.

"I think we should throw all our equipment into  _this_  apartment." Nathan cracked a beer in the three bedroom one, where they congregated. "And I call the master."

"You and me founded the band," Murderface loudly reminded everyone. "Scho I schould schtay in this one too."

"Pfft, dis amn'ts about senorties. Me and Nat'an mights be writing in de middles of the night and you woulds get all pissys about us talkings and playings."

"No I wouldn't!"

"You does it already, when we just goes downstairs at de old place!"

"Well, if you guys're stayin' in the same apartment, then I should too!" Pickles piped up. "The three of  _us_  write most'a the music!"

"Why the fuck do you three think  _you're_  more important than  _us?_ " Magnus jabbed a thumb at Murderface. "That's fucking bullshit.  _All_  of us write the fucking music!"

"Why don'ts you leaves dat to de ones what gots de expersience, ah?"

"I've probably been in more bands than  _you_ , Blondie!"

" _Pfffft!_ Ja rights!"

"Fucking  _cool_  it." Nathan stepped between them. "This is  _my_  band, and I call the shots. Pickles and Skwisgaar are right. We do most of the work, and Murderface gets pissy if people roam around in the middle of the night. Day. When people are sleeping. You two like each other, so  _you_  stay in the two bedroom."

"You guys do most of the work because you won't fucking let us pitch in!"

"Boy, you shore has been crabbies lately," Skwisgaar directed at Magnus. "What gots you panties all in a bunch? Be reasonables! We don'ts let you write the music because you can'ts do it right! Ams all gots to be rewrittens!"

"You know what I'm fucking sick of?" Magnus rose to his feet. "Murderface and I were here before  _both_  of you, and now we're just being shoved aside like fucking  _dirt!_  I was in one of the best fucking classic rock bands to come out of this shitty state, I  _can_  write the fucking music, but you three are so fucking absorbed with yourselves that you refuse to see that!"

"See, dat am de problems! De only classics rock band ever wort' listenings to comes out of England. And you wrotes for  _classic rock_. Dat am a far stretch from death metals, I t'ink so."

"Heey, you can't judge people about what theey played before," Pickles said. "Ya know, so long as he gaht here. Reet?"

"He cans  _play_ , but he can'ts write," Skwisgaar maintained. "I has writtens a lot of death metals in my life. I woulds know what dat sound like. And I beens in pretties much every band, so beats  _dat_ , Guy-Wit'-A-Dildo-On-He-Chin."

"You know what? I don't fucking care  _where_  I sleep." Magnus stormed for the door. "So long as it's not in the same apartment as  _him_."

With Magnus' concession, Murderface didn't stand a chance at staying in the same apartment as Nathan. He moped around until Nathan pointed out that their door would be left open practically all the time, and once their basic necessities were tossed into place, they headed down the street for the liquor store to buy them out of beer. In exploring their new premises in need of fresh air, Nathan discovered down below in the corner that a couple taggers left behind their cans. The frontman started by spraying his name across the master bedroom door, then Skwisgaar and Pickles marked their own spaces. Murderface took liberally to the living room walls until Nathan kicked him outside to finish up his pentagrams and other such Satanic symbols. The bassist ushered them out later to check out his work, then failed to fend Nathan off when the man snatched at the bottle.

"That thing we were talking about," he said to Skwisgaar. "That when the band gets really fucking huge, we're going to build our own fucking house on the top of a mountain and make it look like a fucking viking ship. What did you say we should call it?"

"Mordhaus."

"Yeah." Nathan shook the can. "How d'you spell it?"

He joined Skwisgaar, Pickles, and Murderface in leaning back against the rail as they admired his handiwork. This place wasn't much, compared to the architectural ideas Nathan and Skwisgaar exchanged about their future home, but it was a start. Hopefully they wouldn't have to stay here long. Already, their personalities fought for elbow room, much like Dethklok on America's East Coast. Offdensen worked on moving them west, so at least  _that_ part of their lives stood to gain some relief.

"Cool." Nathan tossed the can over his shoulder, where it landed on their downstair neighbour's car hood with a bang. "Let's fucking drink."

Skwisgaar steered clear of Magnus while the man sulked even more severely than Murderface, not entirely liking the man anyway. Really, if they had any chance to get rid of him, Skwisgaar would be all for it. In most bands that Skwisgaar participated in, no rhythm guitarist was necessary. He could hold that all on his own. But until such a day came, Nathan wanted Magnus in the band and Skwisgaar needed to honour that if he wanted to maintain his own position. He hadn't been around long enough to be comfortable making suggestions to the line-up.

The Swede practiced with a newly purchased metronome when Magnus knocked at his bedroom door. "Hey."

"Oh. His."

"Nathan said you had shit to show me." Magnus remained stiff.

"Ja. Plugs in."

Skwisgaar waited patiently for Magnus to make himself comfortable atop the amp. An unspoken agreement between them stated that they keep out of each other's business unless pressing matters regarding the band required them to share space. With a string of gigs confirmed through the lower South, Southwest, and up the West Coast, they couldn't put this off any longer.

"So fors de origsinal riff on Die for Det'klok. . ." Skwisgaar played it as a reminder, ". . .dis ams what you dos in the background. Now watch my finger."

"Can you slow down a little? I can't make it out—"

"Dis ams how fast yous plays it. I can'ts help it if you am too slow."

Magnus' upper lip curled, eyes narrowing.

"But ja, here's for your eye." Skwisgaar halfed the tempo. "Tries it like dat, go ons."

"Can you show me again?"

Unlike Offdensen, Skwisgaar couldn't hide his annoyance so easily. No argument broke out between he and Magnus, shockingly, but Skwisgaar could tell when the rhythm guitarist stood up to leave that his fuse had been clipped a bit short. "You needs to pracksis. Won'ts be no good if you amn't up to scratches for de forst show we all plays."

"Noted."

"And see if you can stops making you finger drag all over de strings. It ams such dirtys playing it makes me want a showers."

"I've played that way for years, asshole."

"Well dere ams de problem! Today ams a new day, ja?"

Magnus didn't say much when they converged again. He played back what Skwisgaar taught him and stopped when the Swede merely sighed. "No, no, likes  _dis_. How you gets  _dat_  out of alls de t'ing yesterday? Seriouslies, dat am so amsageur. . ."

Skwisgaar came to dread the familiar knock at his door. Although he told Magnus at the tail end of their previous session that he improved, the opposite was true. As if to exemplify that, Magnus played his worse version so far. "Ugh, stop, it ams horting my ears."

"What the hell do you want me to do?" Magnus snapped. "My fingers are so fucking cramped and sore from all this practice, and I think you're purposely making it harder and faster to play every time I see you. Cut the bullshit and make up something that I can  _actually_  play. I fucking get it, all right? You're fucking good. You're fast. Now that you've established that, show me what the  _real_  song is that you want me to play. I'm sick of this stalling. We have a show coming up and we haven't even gotten to your revisions for the second fucking song."

"Dat ams de way the song should be. Nat'ans agree." Skwisgaar lifted his chin. "If you can'ts plays it, den dere ams going to be problem."

"Your face is going to be smashed in, is going to be the problem!"

"How abouts we call Nat'an in here and hear what he am gots to t'ink, hm?"

"He'll see how ridiculous this is. Sure."

A hulking figure appeared in the doorway. "You ladies done in here yet?"

Skwisgaar ignored that. "He says he parts am too hard. Dose am de parts you want him to play, ja?"

"I thought I said that like two weeks ago. Why is this only coming up now?"

"He ams challsengings dat!"

"They're too fucking fast!" Magnus defended himself. "My fingers don't move like his. It's not like I don't  _want_  to play them, I just think he's fucking with me and making purposefully impossible parts!"

"If they were impossible, then how can  _he_  play them?"

"I—" Magnus scowled. "The point is, I can't play the parts, therefore we're not getting anywhere with the music. Tell him to rewrite something that I  _can_  play, and then we can move the fuck along."

"Doubts I could even gets my fingers to  _goes_  dat slow. . ."

"See? See what I mean?" Magnus pointed at Skwisgaar. "It's all this mental shit, too. I'm a good player, I know that, but he always has some sly comment that makes me seem like shit.  _That's_  slowing me down too!"

"Just. . .get it done, okay? I don't care how. Skwisgaar, write something slower but equally badass. Magnus, suck it up and quit being such a bitch. There, I feel better having said that." Nathan left the room.

"Hm. . ." Skwisgaar pursed his lips and studied his guitar. "Okays, how am dis?"

With that declaration from the frontman, Skwisgaar and Magnus reached an agreement and were ready in time for a couple practices before hopping over the northeastern most portion of the Gulf of Mexico for Louisiana. They were ushered from MSY to the venue where, while Skwisgaar applied the corpse paint to his face backstage, he finally had a moment from work and dealing with culture shock to let his mind wander back across the ocean. How long would it be until confirmation reached Toki that he'd reached where he intended to go? He'd already landed on the news, as stations around the country speculated as to who the tall blond spotted with Dethklok could be. Maybe the kid already knew?

Nathan leaned close to the adjacent mirror to check out his job. "Tonight's gonna fucking kill. Literally."

"Don'ts doubt it."

"Seriously. Thought we were big before? Now watch."

Like the festival in Göteburg, they played outdoors. Wind hit Skwisgaar when the stage came into sight, and then the excitement of the audience nearly knocked him over. Thousands of people crowded into the field. While Skwisgaar witnessed the band on television, he missed  _this_  part of it. He'd never played such a huge show. It couldn't be anything out of the ordinary, for the rest of the band didn't at all seem fazed.

"New Orleans!" Nathan invoked an influx in their volume. "On lead guitar, all the way from Sweden, Skwisgaar Skwigelf!"

Skwisgaar ignored the audience until he regained his nerve, then let their energy seep under his skin to fuel him. On stage, Pickles' genial nature waylaid to blurred feet, Murderface's boots situated two shoulder lengths apart, Magnus finally got the hang of his lines, and Nathan's verbal tics gave way for a deep yet clear voice. Whatever the crowd sent at them they reciprocated, forming a vortex not unlike a tornado, the air pressure growing so high that Skwisgaar could swear his boots nearly lifted from the stage. Rather than freaking out, he harnessed it and forced the music onward, daring any of the others to break their spell.

". . .A new record for Dethklok tonight, with one hundred and ten dead. . .a city destroyed. . .nothing is known about the new guitarist besides his name and country of origin, and CFO-slash-band manager Charles Foster Offdensen has refused comment. . .definitely not the last show where the band will be protected by pain waivers, not deterrent but only increasing demand for Dethklok. . ."

The band shared a round of high fives in one of the hotel rooms Charles rented them in Houston, where they'd play the next night. Pickles already sucked back well over a dozen beers, and the rest of them were on their way.

"Cans you fuckings believes dat?"

Nathan clapped Skwisgaar hard enough on the back to send him from the bed's edge. "I fucking can. Seriously, that was our best fucking show. We gotta keep this up, guys. Holy fuck."

"Boys, if I could have your attention—" Offdensen turned the TV off.

"Yeah, yeah, we won't get too waschted tonight, blah blah blah. We descherve it! We deschtroyed New Orleansch! That'sch worth celebrating!"

"Just. . .try to be responsible. Have fun."

A blur of bars, women, and drugs summoned the sun over the eastern horizon. Skwisgaar couldn't sleep if he wanted, nor could he think about the kid he'd worried so acutely about while back home. Sweden, Norway, all of it existed in a previous life. He didn't even mind so much the Southern U.S.'s disgustingly mild weather. Skwisgaar found where he needed to be, and he would never go back.


	14. Foreigners

"I's getting to de point where I can't stands dis no mores. My ball can'ts decide if dey wants to sticks to my leg or tries to get away.  _Pfft_."

Nathan sifted through the bacon he'd made himself for breakfast. The stench of it hung in the air and the stove fan whittled away at the smoke. The least burnt piece he managed to cook fell apart when he lifted it toward his mouth. "Brutal."

"Ams you even listenings to me?"

Ever since they got back to Florida, Skwisgaar did nothing but bitch about the heat. Nathan listened for a while, having experienced for a sliver of time the difference between their respective homelands, but this topic had more than been exhausted. If the Swede couldn't handle April, Nathan would probably strangle him by July. At least now, home again, he could get away from him whenever the need struck. He'd barely seen Magnus, Murderface, or Pickles, either. "Just get used to it, like the rest of us."

" _Pfft!_ " Skwisgaar repeated. "Dis ams already hotters dan anyt'ing I ever liveds in before—"

"JUST SHUT UP ABOUT THE STUPID WEATHER!"

Rustling and a groaning mattress preceded the master bedroom door opening. Nathan caught a glimpse of bare legs and wild black hair before Lavona disappeared down the hall. She and a group of her friends followed the band as they worked their way up California; her face became familiar in the whirlwind of ladies Nathan bedded each night, then eventually she was the only one. Her group turned back at the Oregon border, but Lavona was quite content to briefly abandon her engineering studies at Berkeley in order to pile in with the band. Even if risking her student visa might result in deportation to Germany.

Lavona rested her hands on Nathan's shoulders while she inspected his plate. "I thought it smelled like burned meat in here."

Skwisgaar eyeballed Lavona, something Nathan couldn't take personally after witnessing first hand just how undiscerningly the Swede treated the opposite sex. Roving through a crowd of ladies like a crack fiend was just another day in Dethklok, but while all the American members of the band snickered at the blond behind his back as he shamelessly made his move post-gig on some cougar, Skwisgaar was genuinely confused the next afternoon where exactly the joke lie. And then it kept happening, again and again. . .

Not that the guy, still in his late teen years, totally excluded those near his own age. Dilated pupils and mildly pursed lips as he scoped out Nathan's claim made that obvious. Lavona smelled like sex, a damp spot on her underwear further evidence of her previous night with Dethklok's vocalist. Not that anyone needed a visual or olfactory reminder; thin walls relayed everything and it'd already been passed by unanimous vote during the last band meeting that Nathan must keep his bedroom door shut at all times. The frontman rarely got around to doing laundry, and Lavona had proven Nathan's old Marine buddies right that squirters weren't some mythical creature. If he needed to air the smell of pussy out of his room, he resorted instead to his window unit for circulation.

"I need to talk to you," Lavona told Nathan. "Why don't we find some privacy?"

"Uhh. . .I kinda have a band meeting."

"It should not take long."

"Can't you just wait? Offdensen's gonna be here pretty quick."

"Hm." She pushed her lips out not unlike the Swede. "In that case, I think I get out of here for a bit. I come back later to see if you get your balls back."

"It's got nothing to do with that," Nathan grumbled as she retreated back to his room, presumably to find pants. Did she need to speak like that in front of his bandmates? As much as it irked him, that very attitude behind closed doors turned him into a complete patsy. He ignored Skwisgaar's amusement at the entire scenario and instead attempted his bacon again. Food was much easier on the road, when the band either migrated to a restaurant or had their meals brought to them. First real contact with their fans instigated a tradition of authoritarianism; some of those dildos sprung at the chance to run to Dimmu Burger for them. As Murderface discovered, they'd even shit their pants on demand.

"Heeey—Jesus feckin' Christ!" Pickles stumbled. "Who put their—? Dood, Skwisgare, I thaught you agreed naht to leave yer feckin' boots layin' around."

"Ams a hard habits to break," Skwisgaar huffed. "I still t'ink it woulds be best dat we agrees not to wears us shoe inside. You tracks all de mud in!"

"Who fucking cares? Find one square foot of carpet that doesn't have beer spilled on it. Go. Do it," Nathan goaded the lead guitarist.

"Screws you, I wear my sock around and my feet don'ts get wet."

"I notice ya don' wear the white ones anymore." Pickles pushed Skwisgaar's resultant black feet off the chair so that he could take a seat. "Any  _perticular reeson?_ "

"You ams all pig, so ja, dere am dat. I gets tired of bleaching everyt'ing."

"Then go sit in your room."

"It ams too hot. I needs to get my window t'ing fix."

"Here you go again, talking about the fucking weather. . ."

Offdensen showed up next, dressed in his usual suit. His hair's defiance against remaining flat in places forewarned Nathan without looking out a window that rain would soon flood the parking lot again. "Afternoon, boys. Where are Magnus and Murderface?"

Nathan banged his fist against the wall. A moment later, the two other guitarists appeared in the doorway. Murderface creaked his chair while Offdensen opened his briefcase and shuffled his papers about. A peek inside on the frontman's part came up with nothing more than an eyeful of legal jargon.

"Hey, you gonna finisch that?"

"Huh?" Nathan pushed his plate toward the bassist. "No, go ahead."

He regretted immediately that decision; Murderface never chewed with his mouth closed, due to difficulty breathing through his nose. Even when he tried with the band's insistence, the heavy nature of it forced them to choose the lesser of two evils. Between the grunting and smacking, protest of the bassist's seat, whirring of the stove fan, Offdensen's rustling papers, and Skwisgaar's strings, Nathan's hands balled into fists and his lips thinned. Maybe Skwisgaar was right. It was too fucking hot, too fucking cramped, and too fucking much. "Can we make this quick? I need to get out of here for a while."

"Yeeuh, me too," Pickles agreed.

"Dat am for shores."

"I won't hold you long. This is important though, so I need you all to pay attention." Offdensen finally compiled the stack of paper he sought. "I've been in contact with Roy Cornickelson, the head of Crystal Mountain Records. We've negotiated back and forth on the terms for a potential contract, and I believe he's finally conceded far enough to where signing to his label would be in your best interest."

Murderface stopped eating and Skwisgaar's fingers halted while Pickles and Magnus both accepted a copy of said agreement. The drummer rubbed his chin thoughtfully, eyes darting back and forth as he read. A sense of stupidity mixed with Nathan's irritation. Murderface wouldn't bother to peruse the thing with his status as a general tag-along and Skwisgaar had the excuse of not speaking the language well enough, but  _him?_  "What kind of terms?"

"He's, uh, willing to allow you free reign over your creativity and content, of course, and agrees to negotiate through me on deadlines, advances, things of that manner. Your royalty rate, costs considered, would be thirty-one percent. He's fighting hard for you, and I wouldn't blame him after considering projected sales, the prospective international market—"

"This all looks pritty good t'me," Pickles pushed his copy back across the table, through some bacon grease.

Nathan felt a sudden rush of gratitude toward Offdensen for offering his services back in Baltimore. They never would've gotten this far without the strings he pulled in the background. Forget heading west, forget signing anything not designed to muzzle them, forget a successful future. All Nathan knew was how to be brutal; maybe Dethklok  _could_  maintain its success without this man, but it would be so much more work. "So when does this happen, then?"

"I have a tentative meeting open for Monday, at Crystal Mountain. I'll call to confirm it, if you're all in agreement."

"And you're sure this is benefitchiary?" Nathan stumbled over the word. "I don't wanna get into something that's just gonna fuck us over in the end."

"Dood, it's fine, Nate. It's actually pritty straight forward. There ain't even no appendices 'n' crep."

"If you'd like, we can go over it all—"

"No." Nathan bowed his head. "I think I'm okay with this. Just gotta get used to the idea this is actually gonna happen. Fuck."

"Guysch. . .we're fucking  _schigned._ "

No hollering or calls for drinks followed that declaration. Business complete, Offdensen restored everything to his briefcase and excused himself. Rain clattered against the roof, the fan still whirred away, and Nathan couldn't pinpoint what exactly welled up in his chest. Was it apprehension? Shock? Look at all these dildos he sat with. Murderface hunkered down on his meal, Skwisgaar was unreadable as he commenced practicing his instrument, Pickles toyed with the eyebrow piercings he'd accumulated during one of his public drunkenness spells, and Magnus slouched with his arms crossed. They'd just spent a solid nine weeks bringing mayhem to the masses, yet at the same time nearly driving themselves to murder over their idiosyncrasies. Murderface only washed when they pinned him, Magnus always had to have the last word in every conversation or argument, Skwisgaar harboured no shame about how intimately they knew his sex life, and Pickles constantly disappeared on them. But despite all that, Nathan accepted this. These dildos were  _his_  dildos. The five of them created something magnificent within this conglomerate. Who were they on their own, but a bunch of sad humps? Here, though,  _here_. . .

He punched Murderface in the arm. "I'm fucking going to the bar. Who's coming with?"

Their most frequent haunt always welcomed them with open arms, at the prospect of surged revenue. Nathan paid for the first round, followed by Pickles, then the majority of the other patrons trickled away as the band branched out. A pair of familiar hands laid on Nathan's shoulders again; not exactly caring what Lavona had to say, he pulled her onto his lap. Magnus and Skwisgaar too pursued some sort of audience with a female. The former leaned back against the bar as he smooth-talked some blonde and the Swede probably already had his dick out in the alley, or something. Murderface stood to 'collect on' Magnus' blonde's friend, and Pickles staggered toward the bar in order to get some more shots.

"Congratulations," Lavona purred in Nathan's ear. "I wondered when it would finally happen."

"Yeah," was all Nathan could manage without slurring.

"Is something to celebrate." Lavona twisted some of his hair around her finger. "I have an idea."

"Whassat?"

"Also because of what I wanted to talk to you about this morning. I need to go back to California for to write my exams. So this will have to end for now."

"Hm." That sucked. Not many other ladies could handle taking him in the back door, let alone enjoyed it. Tears never turned Nathan on.

"So let's do something a little different tonight." Lavona lowered her voice as Pickles neared. "Let's get someone else and have a threesome."

"A—? Really?" Nathan accidentally found himself in such a scenario a few times on the road when ladies tripped a little more than usual over themselves to get close to him. It was overwhelming, with too many tits to grab, too many hands on his body. . .but it was totally fucking awesome.

"I get to pick who, though."

"Shaaaahhhhts!" Pickles slopped them a little when he reached the table, dreadlocks gone wayward. "Come git yer shaaahhhts!"

Oblivion hovered beyond the table; Magnus had yet to return, but a dejected Murderface and skanky-wielding Skwisgaar did. Rain trickled down Nathan's back when they finally got booted out not long before dawn. Lavona led him home and all but a yet-again-disappeared drummer followed in their wake. Nathan forgot all about the German's suggestion until he haphazardly undressed. He sat at the edge of his bed with only his jeans left on when Lavona reentered the room with a blond—oh. "Uhh. . ."

"What, dids you ever t'ink dat maybes before she go, someone else mights want to take a cracks at her?"

"I thought you meant another chick," Nathan directed at Lavona.

"Come on, quit being such a repressed American," she teased. He remained unsure as she straddled his hips, but the alcohol in his system allowed him to at least consider it. It wasn't like he and Skwisgaar had to touch or make eye contact or acknowledge the other, right? They simply porked the same lady and reaped the benefits that came with another male present. For instance, the Swede pushing aside the miniscule amount of denim that kept Lavona's shorts together impelled her to hum around Nathan and attempt to take him deeper than she'd ever before managed. Usually she hated it if he pulled her hair, but she sure didn't mind it now.

" _Du har mjuk hud. . ._ " Whether she understood or not, Lavona shifted as necessary for Skwisgaar to rid her completely of clothing. Was that sort of talk the blond's secret? Nathan almost got the impression that he intruded on something when he open his eyes enough to further observe Skwisgaar's method. Even Lavona, get-it-in-get-it-done as she could sometimes be, enjoyed a change from the stress normally placed upon her body. She arched her back as the Swede kissed down her spine, hair raising gooseflesh as far as her shoulders as it brushed her skin. Skwisgaar pushed her fleshy backside apart and—Nathan quit watching. The woman loved it, judging by her nails' bite on the small of the frontman's back, but people did that? Really?

Not that Nathan put anything against Skwisgaar. His head stayed between Lavona's legs when her ass warmed Nathan's lap. The frontman braced her by the crooks of her knees; his hips moved by their own accord and he ignored as best he could that blond hair tickled his balls. But okay, the added pressure of Skwisgaar fingering her was  _definitely_  breaking down Nathan's reservation about another man being in his room like this.

Lavona's entire body quivered, warming the frontman wherever their skin pressed. Before Nathan could warn the other man, Skwisgaar sat up with a bewildered expression on his face and glistening skin from his chin to his bellybutton. Some dripped from his elbow.

"Ja, it happens," Lavona confirmed between pants. Despite it, she leaned back more against Nathan. "Doesn't mean you have to stop."

Skwisgaar wiped down with his shirt and pushed the air simultaneously from Nathan and Lavona's lungs. Okay, that was tight.  _Really_  tight. And he could feel the other man moving inside her. Only after, when sense somewhat returned, did Nathan realize just how much he and Skwisgaar's legs had to touch in order to make it possible. Good thing the Swede left fairly quickly—or Nathan assumed he did, anyway. Too drunk to know or care, he pushed Lavona to the side of his bed she'd claimed and let the spinning room fade from his consciousness.

"Hey." Someone shook his shoulder. Nathan forgot to close the blinds, it seemed. He grumbled and lifted the blanket up over his head until his eyes adjusted. Lavona stood over him in the sunlight, showered and groomed, in a pair of jeans and tee shirt. "I'm heading for the bus station."

"You are?" Nathan also forgot that she had somewhere to go. "Right."

"Thanks for letting me come back here a while. It was fun. Maybe I'll see you if your band plays close to where I'm at."

"Cool."

A weak body and lingering scent of Lavona reminded Nathan all too acutely what happened. Uncertainty poisoned his calmness as he leaned against the wall in the shower. Oh god. He—maybe he couldn't realize it last night, inhibitions low, but he and Skwisgaar kind of fucked in some sense, didn't they? It was dubious, at best. But better safe than sorry, right? Maybe they'd gotten a bit too crazy. . .Lavona kind of had that effect on whoever she hung around. It bothered him enough to seek Skwisgaar out.

The Swede sat up on the edge of his bed, already at his guitar for the day. Before he could get a word out, Nathan laid it out as simply as possible: "We're not gonna talk about that, all right? And it's never going to happen again."

" _Pfft_." Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Typicals repress Americans."

"It's not repressed. It's gay. And I'm not. I don't know what's normal for you people over in Sweden—or Germany—but we don't do that here. Got it?"

"Just means next time you won'ts be includeds."

Did Skwisgaar just admit—? Nope, let it go. He's just saying. "You do whatever you want. Just try to, you know. Keep it under wraps."

"Likes you and  _her?_ "

"She's gone."

"Ja." The Swede's fingers did a quick burst over the frets. "We fucks a bit forst. No bigs deal."

Nathan stared at Skwisgaar, then retreated back into his room. Foreigners. Fucking foreigners. Were they all like this, so blatant, open, and explorational in their sexuality? The frontman missed, just for the moment, having a band consisting entirely of Americans. At least then, he didn't have to lay in bed and wonder what degree of gay this surely made him.


	15. The Gears

They'd all spent another long night at the studio, and Pickles was exhausted. For more than likely the literal hundredth time, Magnus slouched inside the booth while the other four members of the band crossed their arms behind the control panel. Empty beer bottles littered every square inch of surface not in use.

"Do it again," Nathan instructed him.

"What?" Magnus' lip curled. "That one was fine! Why?"

"Here he go again, fuckings arguing!" Skwisgaar gestured angrily at him. "Just fuckings do it so we cans go home and get some fucking sleeps!"

"Yeah, we're fucking  _exhauschted!_ Juscht fucking do it, dick!"

And there it went again. Skwisgaar and Murderface rose from their seats and Magnus stepped up to the glass. The Swede dabbled into his own language when all the insults he'd learned in English dried up, and the bassist's words were lost in a constant stream of spit. Nathan joined the racket, ordering them to chill the fuck out and sit back down. While Pickles assumed the frontman pushed them back to their chairs, he hadn't stuck around to witness it. He'd be swallowed by the night before they even realized he'd snuck out.

The tip of a cigarette glowed extensively before his face. Hassling to the point of nagging from the other guys pressured Pickles to quit smoking, but if they really wanted to help they'd have to cool down. They'd been in the studio for over ten months now, marking a year since Skwisgaar even joined, and what did they have to show for it? Nothing worth keeping, in Nathan's words. It had to be perfect. Wasn't it already? Every time Pickles assumed that, Nathan scrapped it and they found themselves with something even better, a month later.

Pickles never realized the toll heavier music would take on him. Yes, he fucking loved what Dethklok did. In a way, he even liked his bandmates when they weren't sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in a small dark room, struggling under the weight of their collective talent. Transport to the few shows they played was preferable to the studio; at least in a vehicle, they weren't forced to interact. Skwisgaar could practice his guitar, Murderface could sleep, and Nathan could lift weights in the back while Pickles and Magnus took turns driving. But in moments where silence fell beyond breath, body odour, and the ever-present plucking of guitar strings, reminiscence gave way to incredible loneliness for the drummer.

There was an easiness to Snakes 'n' Barrels that didn't exist at all within Dethklok. Maybe Candy, Bullets, and Tony's flamboyant behaviour sometimes made Pickles uncomfortable, but at least no fear existed toward expressing themselves. To contrast, the members of Dethklok kept each other in check, lest they display any non-brutal behaviour. Guilt curdled Pickles' insides a couple months ago when, because of their teasing, Nathan slammed the door in his mother's face as she dropped by one evening to say hello. Skwisgaar kept himself a stranger ever since the backlash that came with being caught tapping his fingers along to an Abba song in a restaurant. The bassist, in attempt to gain some notoriety in lieu of aptitude, sent himself to the emergency room and added blood stains to their carpet by boredly carving out his arm. Magnus and Pickles never spoke about where their experience in the music business came from; they stuck to drinking and doing drugs, both of which they could handle in amounts far more copious than the others.

Pickles stopped at a gas station to get more cigarettes before turning the block for home. The absence of Nathan's bike and Magnus' car meant he could get some peace. He didn't quite feel ready for sleep though, even with the impending sun tinging the sky orange. A couple neighbours, their identity hidden by ski masks, loitered out front. They grew quiet, respectful as he passed. Normally he might join them, but he really didn't feel like it right now. The depletion of his energy needed more than a good night's rest before bouncing back. After their album was finished, he seriously needed some kind of a vacation.

Even though he slept through everyone else coming home, he could sense upon awakening that they'd all made it back. The air grew stuffy and thick with lack of room to keep them all. Pickles opened his window—the unit removed for the winter months—and laid on his stomach across the bed while lighting his first cigarette of the day. Until Nathan called for them to return to the studio, this was as close to peace as he would get.

Sometimes he thought about quitting. How much pressure could one person take, after all? He ran away from his parents' house in order to escape such a powder keg of instability, and somehow that managed to catch up to him all over again. He wasn't the target this time around, but witnessing the same sort of treatment didn't make it any easier. Magnus never allowed for a slip in his facade, unless anger counted. When they first met, the rhythm guitarist was probably the most level-headed of them. Well, they were  _all_  normal, once. Such a toxic environment was making them lose their minds. Even if they got this album done, did a tour, all the usual shit, how long until they imploded? The music they created—the world they made—could never hold priority over ego. And there was more than enough of that to go around, here.

Whenever he seriously considered it, it seemed easier just to go on as he did. Guilt came too, because they really did need him. He, Nathan, and Skwisgaar were driving this train. Maybe if he did like Murderface and sat back to let things unfurl it'd be different, but the music belonged largely to him. He'd invested far too much into this. He'd fucking  _killed_  a guy for this opportunity. Who was to say leaving Charles' protective bubble would keep that a secret from the Tallahassee police? Not that any crime committed during their shows went investigated anymore, anyway. . .

A fist knocked on his door, startling him. "Pickles, you awake?"

"Yeeuh, dood." The drummer's stomach dropped. Time to head back, he supposed.

"We're gonna go get breakfast at Lemmy's. Coming?"

A change of pace butt out Pickles' cigarette. Nathan's nose wrinkled slightly at the lingering smell of tobacco, but no one said anything. How could they, when they turned to their own vices in order to cope? Booze breath and pot outranked his paltry habit any day.

Their unshowered, stringy-haired state coming through the restaurant door so close to the conventional dinner time placed them in a booth removed from their fellow patrons. They all sat with their shoulders hunched to avoid touching each other; being small finally paid off for  _something_ , Pickles thought.

Nathan cleared his throat after they'd placed their orders. "I'm just going to put this out there, but I think that we might be getting a little burned out."

"We has beens in de studio twelve hour a day for  _mont's_.  _I's_  definitelys a littles tired."

"I need a break," Magnus supplied. His eyes narrowed at Skwisgaar.

"Yeah—"

"Okay." Nathan bowed his head. "How about this: let's take a couple days off. Go back at it fresh. I think we're getting close, guys. I can feel it."

A collective sigh of relief sounded around the table. Pickles himself grinned, finally able to sense some sort of appetite. He'd lost a couple of pounds thanks to all this stress. Figuring he might as well work on getting it back, he started with the pancakes set down before him by the waitress.

"I'm thinking about going to the liquor store and buying a shit ton of booze," Nathan announced. "For tonight. We could invite all the neighbours. Or just throw a party in the parking lot or some shit. Not like anyone would care."

"I thaught we were teekin' a break from each other?"

"Can if you want. But I'm just gonna say that if anyone wants to find me, that's where I'll be."

"Nots like I could sleep t'rough all dat. . ." Skwisgaar shrugged. "I problies stick around."

"Yeah, me too." Murderface folded his fingers behind his head. "I don't need schleep. I juscht need a really good drunk and a couple ladiesch to put my you-know-what in—"

Skwisgaar scoffed. "Ja, you cans maybe has my sloppy seconds."

"That'sch not fair! Nathan, tell him to schare."

"It amn'ts my fault dey finds you repulksive."

"I am a perfect gentleman!"

"Maybes lay off on de garbage can coloognes?"

"Oh fuck you, Schkwischgaar!"

"I's tryings to helps you wit' de advice." Skwisgaar took a break long enough from playing his guitar to take a bite of eggs. "You needs to takes a shower, floss you teeth, and reigns it in a bit. You goes way overboards. It come off as desperates."

"I can't help the way I am, scho fuck you."

Skwisgaar shrugged. "Don'ts be moping arounds den, when you don'ts get not'ing to puts you dick in."

"Women like confidence," Magnus added with a wary glance at the lead guitarist. "That, you don't have."

"Ja, listens to dis dildo. You gots to acts like you de most fuckings important porson dey ams ever goings to meet."

"No wonder he gets scho musch fucking pusschy," Murderface grumbled under his breath to Magnus.

With even Skwisgaar and Magnus temporarily laying down their arms, Pickles half-considered sticking around. It remained true though, that he'd be caged in with these guys again in short order. After helping Nathan transport his purchases home, he headed off down the road for his favourite bar.

"What's it, tonight?"

"Whisky on the rocks. Heh." Déjà vu washed over Pickles when his band's name was spoken on the television mid-sip.

". . .Still no release date on the horizon for Dethklok's long-awaited debut album. Although they have gained significant momentum over the past few years, self-proclaimed experts on the band have begun to question, can they keep it up? Will the occasional concert keep their fans placated long enough to maintain their loyalty?"

"Very valid points, Melissa. No doubt, though, their core group of fans are not going anywhere anytime soon. I refer of course to the thugs that manifested originally when Dethklok had yet to break out of Florida, who donned ski masks in order to keep their identity from authority figures. Their presence has dwindled since the Western U.S. tour last spring, but they've concentrated in Tampa, Florida, where the band calls home. We have an expert here, Dr. Fizbenz Eryikavich to tell us more about them and their correlation to crime rates. . ."

A man with thinning hair up top and watery little eyes joined the two co-hosts on stage, to the audience's polite applause. "Thank you. Yes, it has been true in recent history that masked people were mostly in charge for the damage and destruction surrounding Dethklok's performances. A vast difference, however, separates those who simply went home after the concert from those who shed their identities completely and migrated southeast in order to dedicate themselves to the band and their various needs."

"So who are these people? Are they a threat? Dangerous, unstable?"

"No, no, not at all. They are fans. . .one could say  _more_  than fans, as if Dethklok has risen as some twisted form of new religion. They call themselves Klokateers, or less formally the Gears. Their creed exchanges their names for numbers, and they will answer to nothing but. Any inquiry about their prior life goes unanswered, so investigating their backgrounds is near impossible unless family steps forward. They seem as mentally stable as you or I."

"But they're dedicating their lives to a death metal band!"

"They would argue that Dethklok are not false idols, like Jesus Christ or God himself. The band is real, the band is human, and they have a message more important than any other teachings to have ever graced this green earth."

"And what is that?"

"I'm afraid that is not my area of expertise. . ."

Pickles' jaw slackened, and he was unaware that his glass had been refilled. Maybe spending so much time in the studio hampered their ability to see beyond that small world. They noticed, of course, when these masked people occupied all the apartments cleared out by Dethklok's raucous behaviour. Any chance they could, they took advantage of the fact that these people would do anything for them. Sure, it was weird that they didn't have names, but who cared so long as they weren't there to fuck with the band?

Someone slapping the counter next to Pickles made him jump. "Jesus feckin' Christ, Magnus. Don' feckin' do thet."

The man just laughed. "What's good in here?"

"Anything, I'onno." Pickles downed his drink again. "Whet're you doin' here? Party a bust, 'r whet?"

"Nah. Just wanted to get away for a bit."

"Yer bleedin'."

Magnus nonchalantly wiped at his nose. "Yeah. Kind of got into a fight."

"Huh."

"Did you know that he was rerecording Murderface and I's parts?"

"Who, Skwisgare?" The drummer shrugged. "Naht thet I noticed."

"Fucking prick!" Anger suddenly returned, squashing any amicability Magnus showcased. "I'm so fucking sick of that asshole I can taste the puke. It doesn't even fucking matter if I learn my parts, because they don't even wind up on the fucking record. Isn't that fucking rich?"

"Hoow'd you even find out?"

"Bastard told me himself. We were trying to hook Murderface up with some crack whore skank and it came up. Fucking  _ass_." Magnus slammed back the shot set before him. "I seriously don't know how much longer I can fucking take him, Pickles. I'm serious. Not just because we've all been stuck in the same fucking room day in, day out. He's been prancing around like he fucking owns the whole band since he got here. I'm starting to have dreams where I kill him, and the few moments after I wake up are the only time in the fucking day that I'm actually  _happy_. I miss when it was just the four of us. He's fucked us up, Pickles.  _Fucked us up_."

Pickles disagreed through silence, which Magnus read as the opposite. The band didn't stand nearly as tall before the blond showed up. Sure, they did fine, but compared to now? Dethklok needed Skwisgaar. It would probably kill all of them to listen to how they played without him.

"Let's ditch this racket." Magnus turned to face him. "Let's quit and start our own band. Fuck these guys. If Nathan wants to rule with an iron fucking fist, then he can go shove it up his ass."

"I don' think it's thet easy."

"I'm starting to hate  _all_  of you. Not you, you're cool. But the others.  _Fuck_." Another shot went down. "I could strangle all of them in their sleep."

"You should prahbly get thet under control. I don' think you could take Nate'n, anywee." Pickles shifted uncomfortably. Judging by Magnus' knuckles, he'd done Skwisgaar over a lot better than the Swede managed in kind. Not that the blond was built for fighting. "It'll get better when we're done the record."

"No, it won't. Because then we're probably heading right out onto the road and I fucking  _swear_  I'll leave him in a ditch somewhere if he's got  _one thing_  to say about my playing."

Not sure what to say about the whole matter, Pickles stayed relatively quiet while Magnus vented. He understood completely the man's frustrations, and yet. . .objectively, if anyone needed to go, it was Magnus. Skwisgaar put his heart, soul, and talent into this band, Murderface could handle the pressure, and there  _was_  no Dethklok without Nathan. Sans Magnus, how many fights would there even _be?_  But it all came down to Nathan; so long as he believed Magnus should stay, he would. Unless Pickles took matters into his own hands and molded the band again like in Tallahassee. . .

Nah. Just like Magnus, Pickles needed to keep temptations like that in check.

"Heh. I think I'm good." The drummer grinned crookedly after an adequate amount of drinks. "Thinkin' aboot headin' back. You?"

A couple cars burned in the streets, and the racket grew louder the closer they got to home. Where Pickles expected to see red and blue flashing, the police hadn't even bothered to show up. As soon as the drummer stepped off the sidewalk, a beer was shoved into his hands by one of the klokateers. "Where's Nate?"

Ignoring being addressed as a lord, Pickles sought the frontman out. Nathan stood around a bonfire with Murderface and a couple ladies. Judging by their upturned noses, they'd foregone the bassist in favour of the younger man.

"Hold up, hold up." Nathan's high spirits disappeared as soon as he saw the drummer and rhythm guitarist. Pushing people out of the way, he made a beeline through the crowd. Pickles braced himself, but the frontman merely jabbed a finger in Magnus' chest.

"You fucking do that again, and I swear to fucking God, Magnus." Nathan kept his voice low. "You ever lunge at any of us, and you're  _out_. I'm serious."

"Won't happen." Magnus teetered backward. "Just. . .yeah. Lost control of myself there, for a minute."

"That better be all it was. Don't fucking test me. I  _will_  kick you out." A nod from the guitarist ended Nathan's concentration on him. Instead, he pat Pickles on the shoulder. "Come fucking drink. Skwisgaar turned in with some skanks, but Murderface and I are still going. . ."


	16. Scandinavians

A well-engrained habit by this point, Charles automatically opened his desk's top-right drawer in search for something to kill his headache. As if things didn't go badly enough already.

Eighteen albums, recorded and subsequently erased. Pretty much one for every month since Dethklok got signed. If Charles hadn't seen them hard at work, he'd believe they didn't take this seriously. He buffered them from the pressure coming down from Crystal Mountain, nearly sold his own soul every single time another advance was needed, and scurried yet again to plan a show in order to keep the fans and economy going. How did it even happen, that the only superpower nation left in the world relied on a handful of _kids_ to survive? Why did so many people kill themselves every time the record's release date got pushed back?

And then _this_ had to happen. In pretty much the same breath that Nathan told him they were closer than ever to being finished, Charles learned about the flesh wound on the twenty-three year old's shoulder. That Magnus was gone, written off as crazy. Had smeared his own blood in cryptic messages all over their apartment before disappearing into the night. The other four agreed that the rhythm guitarist couldn't handle the pressure, but they couldn't at least get the record done before sending him on his way? Granted, Charles didn't want the man around if he might stab someone else. Especially with the chance that he might finish the job this time.

So long as Nathan, Skwisgaar, Pickles, and Murderface adjusted to a four-member band, Charles could too. But only stacking on to his pre-existing headache were the two kids—no, only one was technically a kid—that sat before him right now. He didn't even care that Skwisgaar drove the band's van over without a license to introduce him to Magnus' replacement. So much else concerned him.

“. . .Does he speak _any_ English?”

“He can says please and t'ank you, t'ing like dat.”

“And how old is he?”

“He wills be seventeen in December.”

Charles knocked back a couple pills and washed them down. Hopefully that would help. Before bringing this kid over, Skwisgaar could've at least shown him to the shower. He hadn't been in the southern tip of the States for very long, judging by how his body handled the heat. Sweat stains darkened his tee shirt and his hair fell flat against his head. He probably stunk before he'd even got here. “What did you say his name was?”

“Toki Wartooth.”

Charles jotted it down. “I'm not exactly sure what to do here, Skwisgaar. He's a minor. Where are his parents?”

“Can'ts you make up fake t'ing what say he older? You can't sends him home. Dems people am _crazy_ , craziers dan Magnus even! You gots no ideas what dey do to him. Dere am reason why he live on de street.”

“You know him personally?” Charles originally assumed that Skwisgaar only picked Toki because they shared somewhat common cultures and a kid would be easier to boss around than an experienced musician. “Skwisgaar, you can't let something like that dictate the future of the band. He can visit if you're friends, but—”

“Oh, he cans play de guitar. Don'ts worry about dat. He acksly make me better at mine, too. Even Nat'an say so.” Skwisgaar set a booted foot on the edge of Charles' desk. “So he ams going to bes in de band. It amn't dat I saw someones I know what mades my decision to brings him in. I treats him no differents dan anyone else and I didn'ts let him t'ink he get special t'ing for knowings me back in Sweden. He gets in fair and squares. You waits until you hears us next recording.”

Charles sighed. “I can't tell you boys no, if you've made up your mind. But it becomes difficult when he's under eighteen. It _would_ be easiest to fabricate false documentation rather than set him up with a guardian until he turns of age, and possibly have to deal with his parents if they're as terrible as you say.”

Even though Toki couldn't understand their volley, Skwisgaar lowered his voice. “Dey ams religlous weirdos. I don'ts t'ink Toki went to schools. I's not even shore if he am registered like babies am when dey born. He grews up in a place wit'out eleckscrisity and, well. . .”

Charles' headache pounded as Skwisgaar described the circumstances surrounding Toki's departure from home. While the Swede stared at his hands and Toki in turn listened to the foreign words he spoke, the manager's gaze floated over to the band's newest, youngest member. He couldn't imagine _anyone_ going through what the Norwegian did and coming out a productive member of society. Then again, he fit with the other guys in that none of them, without Dethklok, would've amounted to much.

“. . .So he can'ts go back,” Skwisgaar finished up. “And he parent won'ts even talk to him anyways. Dey gots dis vow of sigence t'ing for anyone outsides de chorch.”

The kid couldn't consciously be returned to such an abusive home. Not that Charles could contact the parents anyway, by the sounds of it. He'd have to make a personal visit to their village, and he couldn't justify buying a couple plane tickets right now. Really, the closest person Toki had to a feasible guardian was Skwisgaar. And it seemed that, whether Toki was in the band or not, the Norwegian would be sticking around a little while. If that were the case, then he might as well pull his weight. Record and perform as the rhythm guitarist. If it didn't work out, the band would either boot him or he'd move along.

“You nots gonna send him back to Norway, ams you?”

“No.” Charles sighed. “I'll, uh. . .with his permission, I'll find someone that will produce some papers. And I'll get started on his work visa.”

Skwisgaar switched to his mother tongue to explain everything to Toki. The kid listened intently, wide-eyed, and smiled when the Swede finished. He nodded at Charles.

“All right.” Charles considered a few people already, who could at least point him in the right direction to get this done. “So with that settled for now. . .I assume he's staying with all of you?”

“I's going to teach him de English and we gots work to do, so it am best, ja.”

“Just don't. . .” Charles eyed Toki warily. “You've all become accustomed to handling copious amounts of alcohol and drugs. Don't accidentally kill him or—”

“We ease him into it carefullys. Don'ts be such a worry.” Skwisgaar waved the concern off. “We won'ts let him get hort. _I_ won'ts let him.”

“Good. That would be the absolute _last_ thing Dethklok needs, right now.” Charles tapped his pen against the desk. “Should I give you both a ride back, then?”

He'd organize for the van's return later. Both Scandinavians hopped into the back seat of Charles' car and the manager half-listened to their indecipherable exchange. Rather than roll his eyes or grumble like anyone else would, Toki asked questions about whatever Skwisgaar pointed out and maintained an excited tone. Having a friend in the band helped the kid transition from Europe to America, but did he even understand what he'd just become a part of? Who these guys were? What was expected of him?

The high July sun baked Charles again as soon as he cut the engine. “Toki is staying in Magnus' old room?”

“Ja.”

“What state is it in?”

Because band meetings were held in Nathan, Skwisgaar, and Pickles' apartment, Charles rarely visited the other. His lips fell apart when the door opened. Had it _ever_ been cleaned? How did Murderface and Magnus stand living in such a pigsty? It smelled like—ugh, he didn't even want to think about it. Whatever it was, it kept him from entering. “Well.”

“Moidaface say Magnus trash it when he go, but I amn't seeings dat part of it. . .”

A group of klokateers a few doors down casually watched while taking in a smoke. No way could Charles sanction _anyone_ to live here, not even Murderface, without something being done. As if reading his mind, the four masked men migrated closer.

Charles cleared his throat. “Ah. . .would you—?”

“You heard the man, let's go!” The closest one barked at the others. They filed into the apartment and began gathering trash.

“They does whatsever you wants dem to,” Skwisgaar supplied. “I has one what clean my rooms everyday and bleach my t'ing.”

“I see.”

“Dey won'ts take long. Moidaface say dat Magnus wreck he bed, though. So we needs to get a new one for Toki. All he gots am he guitar and a littles bit of monies. Nots enough to get everyt'ing he want and has food.”

“I'll open him an account at the bank and move some money around so that—”

“Oh, don'ts worry about it.” Skwisgaar waved him off. “I wasn'ts telling you to do dat. I pays for he t'ing untils he get he own money from our record.”

“It's unnecessary, Skwisgaar. You boys need to have another concert soon anyway, so he can begin earning his own then.”

“Den I pays for t'ing until _dat_.” A lift of the Swede's chin ended the argument. “He wills need new clothes, forst of all. Maybes I put him in de shower and takes him downtown.”

“Don't get ahead of yourself.” Charles stepped aside as a garbage bag was passed over the edge of the railing to another klokateer standing below. “I know you're excited, but I need to speak with you all.”

“No ones am around. We didn'ts expect you to comes by.” Skwisgaar took a step back toward the other apartment. “I's gonna gets my wallet.”

Charles rubbed the bridge of his nose in attempt to quell the tail-end of his headache. This heat didn't help. Awkward without the other man, he and Toki shifted where they stood. Even if the manager could speak to the kid, he didn't know what he would say. Would he warn him? Comfort him? That was a laugh—Charles couldn't remember the last time he did something like that. Even when his father was killed during his late teens, his inconsolable mother struck him dumb.

“Okays, I's ready to—oh, rights. We don'ts got our van.” Skwisgaar placed his hands on his hips.

“You can't drive anyway, until you get your license.”

“You goings to take us, den?”

“Uhh—”

“What else we supposed to do, ah? Toki can'ts have a shower and puts he stinky clothes back on.”

For everything Charles did, this was _not_ in the job description. If he wanted to help people find clothes, he would've stayed in Baltimore. “Maybe a couple klokateers would chauffeur you.”

“No, _you_ comes. Whats else you goings to do? Hangs out here and watch dese guys picks up Moidaface's garbage?”

Charles really didn't have anything better to attend to, and going back to his apartment seemed a waste of time if he was only going to return later. At least Skwisgaar was tolerable today, with his guard down and mood up. How bad could it be? “All right, but just for a little while.”

Maybe getting Toki to have a shower before they left again wouldn't have been a bad idea. However, it didn't occur to Charles until he, the two Scandinavians, and two klokateers filed into Thin Lizzy's Clothing, the band's go-to on the other end of Occasion Avenue. Any salespeople that came over did a one-eighty with wrinkled noses, which was just fine. Although Charles had a difficult time warming up to the idea of the klokateers—untrusting of anyone willing to go without pay for the menial tasks they performed—he'd rather they handle the boys.

“No, nots _skjorte_. Shirt. _Upprepa efter mig._ Shirt.”

Charles stood back as Skwisgaar led Toki around the store, encouraging the kid to repeat the names of whatever he pointed at. In the year and a half that the manager knew Skwisgaar, he wouldn't believe him capable of taking care of an animal, let alone another human being. He'd never mentioned the Norwegian in all the ramblings he subjected Charles to when asked about any potential background that might one day harm his public image. Perhaps he didn't believe it important at the time. Maybe figuratively holding some kid's hand through such a rocky period in his life wasn't something he wanted anyone to know about, as a member of Dethklok. _All_ the boys went overboard in how they presented themselves toward one another.

“What's this?” Toki indicated a skull belt buckle.

“You wants to try dat too?” Skwisgaar held it out to him, but the Norwegian only giggled.

“ _Du ikke har endret klærne siden Sverige. Kvitte seg med den hvite._ ”

The Swede considered the piece held forlornly in his hand. “Hm. I _ams_ gettings tired of bleaching everyt'ing. . .”

“Please?”

Each of the klokateers packed a couple bags out after Skwisgaar paid. The Swede immediately handed his receipt over. “Mights as well just takes it before I loses it.”

“Thank you.”

“So what about t'ing like a bed? He need a place to sleeps.”

“I'll arrange for something, but you don't need to pay for that as well. As soon as he makes the money to cover it, I'll simply put it back into whatever account it—”

“If it ams going to comes from any account, mights as well makes it mine. De band mights not like de idea of our monies being used for t'ing like dat.”

“I suppose—”

“I gots enough, right? Am dat why you keeps asking?”

“Yes, you're in fine financial shape, Skwisgaar. Ah. . .I just want you to know you aren't obligated to do any of this. We can make due with Toki in other ways.”

“So you keep sayings. Just lets me do dis. I owes him a bit, okays?”

How the hell did Skwisgaar owe Toki _anything?_ From what Charles gathered, he'd done more for the Norwegian than anyone else. He got him out of a broken home, saved his life, and offered him immeasurable power by admitting him into Dethklok. What could Skwisgaar possibly feel guilty for? Was there something he didn't tell Charles? Or was his judgement merely hampered by the excitement of a fellow Scandinavian coming along?

Skwisgaar desperately clung to his Swedish roots, no matter how much the other boys teased him for it. Charles could sympathize; travelling out of country during his stint with the CIA often led to a keen grasp on familiar culture. Whether it be a hamburger, the stars and stripes, or C&N on the television, it offered him a base in which he could safely explore an entirely new set of customs. Similarly, Skwisgaar had walked out of the clothing store wearing the black shirt, grey pants, and black boots he picked out. While Charles assumed relinquishing so much grip on his identity would perturb the blond, the man mirrored Toki's relaxed slouch in the backseat while they stumbled through a fusion of Swedish, Norwegian, and English understandable only to themselves. It had yet to be seen how Toki would fare for the music or the others, but Charles concluded already that this smelly little street kid had a soothing effect on Skwisgaar's psyche. Maybe if that played true for the others it, along with Magnus' departure, would allow them all the clarity to finally get some work done.

After a quick stop in a bed store, they carried on back to the band's apartment complex. Nathan's motorbike sat out front, but Charles knew better than to wake him up for anything less than an emergency. Pickles and Murderface still plead absent so, without anywhere else worth going, Charles took a seat at the freshly cleaned kitchen table in order to figure out where to start on legitimizing Toki. Once the boy was ushered into the bathroom and the shower started up, Skwisgaar joined Charles with his guitar. Like the others, the manager grew accustomed to the Swede's constant practice filling the silence.

“I woulds appreskate it if you don'ts tell nobodies about dis.”

“About what?”

“What I does for Toki.”

“I can't fathom a reason I would.”

“Goods.” Skwisgaar paused. “Dese guy am like vulture. You puts one finger outside de car, dey gots it in dey grip and ams tearing you aparts wit' it.”

“You're just as bad as any of them.”

“Ja,” the Swede readily admitted. “But we ams de most brutals band in de woorld. We can'ts let de stupid t'ing about ourselves compkramise dat.”

“Is that what you're going to tell Toki?”

“He figures it out pretty quick, I t'ink.”

A door opening down the hallway distracted them. Hair sopping wet and a grin beneath it, Toki emerged in a fresh blue tee shirt and brown jeans. He said something in Norwegian, but halted when Skwisgaar reminded him of the preferred language. “I feels good.”

“Cool. We go sees if dem klokateers get you bed set up. Come.”

The deep rumble and vibration of furniture being moved around broke Charles' concentration. And yet. . .despite this, despite the headache, despite driving a couple kids around this part of Tampa, the manager discerned a good mood. The rare excitement around here was contagious. If only so much could be said for the bassist when his voice cut Skwisgaar's off from bossing around the klokateers.

“What the fuck happened in here? Who tousched all my schit? Where'sch all my schtuff?”

“Its was pure garbage! Why you keepings all you clothes what been rippeds?”

“Becausche they might be _worth_ schomething schomeday!”

 _Charles Foster Offdensen, read band manager, CFO, lawyer, now driver and referee_ , the man thought to himself. A clear of his throat in the spotless living room over ended the arguing. While Pickles couldn't care less, Toki stood off to the side and fervently rubbed his hands. Poor kid probably thought this had something to do with him. “What's the problem, Murderface?”

“Jesus Christ, what's with all the yelling? Don't you know hungover people are trying to fucking sleep?” Nathan came in the door behind Charles. “Whoa. Wouldn't even recognize this place if you dicks weren't standing in it.”

“Thosche klokateersch threw away all my schtuff! You!” Murderface pointed at the nearest one. “Go jump off the roof and kill yourschelf!”

“Yes, my master—”

“Hold on, no one's killing themselves,” Charles cut him off. “Murderface, this place was a _wreck_. It wasn't at all suitable for a kid to live in—”

“You mean I gotta _schare_ with thisch dildo?” The bassist glared at Toki. “Why doesch't Schkwischgaar? _He'sch_ the one teaching him Englisch and schit!”

“Because de band—”

“We're in the fucking schtudio half the day already, when'sch the lascht time you guysch _actually_ got up in the middle of the fucking day to write schomething? I wanna schwitsch!”

“Magnus might've let you spill your shit everywhere, but you can't do that in _my_ apartment,” Nathan told him. “Just fucking stay where you are.”

“No! I refusche! Thisch isch the lascht schtraw!”

“Straw fer _whet?_ ” Pickles asked. “You've had it feckin' easy.”

“Regardlessch! I wanna schwitsch!”

“Fines!” Skwisgaar threw his arms up. “I don'ts care, I woulds rat'er stays in here dan de ot'er one!”

“You!” Murderface pointed at the klokateer waiting for further instruction. “Schwitsch out Schkwischgaar'sch schit for mine! I'm _moving up_ in the world!”

Amazing that the two of them could reach a mutually favourable conclusion without intervention. Both, when certain no one paid attention to them, allowed the mere flash of a victorious smile.

Nathan poked Charles in the shoulder. “What're you doing here, anyway?”

“I needed to gather Toki in order to get his paperwork started,” Charles replied, well aware that Skwisgaar listened closely. “And now I need to talk to you five about your next concert.”

“Oh.”

While klokateers busied themselves with the task at hand, moving in and out, back and forth between the apartments and cleaning up Murderface's room to Skwisgaar's standards, the band congregated at the table in the Americans' kitchen. Toki remained apprehensive, since no one explained anything that happened yet, but he relaxed a bit when Pickles pat him on the shoulder.

“So we've reached a milestone,” Charles stated. “If you guys confirm this next city, you will have your first international concert.”

“Awesome!” Nathan slapped a palm down on the table. “Where is it? I bet it's in fucking Russia, or something.”

“Feckin' Thailand!”

“Mexschico!”

“Italys!”

“Ah. . .I'm afraid not. I've been in contact with people in Toronto—”

“Toronto?” The frontman's shoulders slumped. “Fucking Canada?”

“Got usch all exschited for nothing. . .”

“Whet're we gonna play fer? The trees? Heh.”

Charles cleared his throat. “Canada is the easiest step to make in expanding your reach, and I'm certain many American fans will follow us across the border. It's getting harder and harder to book shows here, since the extent of the damage isn't always, uh, worth it, in the hosting city's eyes.”

“Feckin' cheap-os. So we gahtta head north, then?”

“Yes.”

The Americans groaned, but the Scandinavians didn't seem to care less. Granted, Toki couldn't understand. Oh well. The band wouldn't regret the push upward, and considering their recent addition, dropping the Norwegian into American culture and then removing him for something completely different would only layer on the confusion. If he wanted to get used to the western hemisphere, it was a good idea to stick to a place relatively similar.  


	17. Depths of Humanity

“Okays, ja, dat ams good, just keeps it up.”

“This?”

Toki and Skwisgaar sat on their living room floor, respective guitars in their laps. Although he carefully watched the blond's fingers, Toki relied on his ears to synchronize their lines. His gaze jumped from the Explorer's frets to his Flying V's when he discerned no difference.

“Ja, just likes dat.” Skwisgaar offered an encouraging smile. “See, dis am ways easier dan wit' Magnus. . .”

Toki's basic grasp on the language caused him to lose track of what the blond said, although the growing fervency of his tone and constant use of the word 'dildo' denoted a rant. His attempt not to laugh at Skwisgaar's dramatics became pointless when a loud, reverberating bang sounded against the wall separating their apartment from the others'.

Startled, Skwisgaar switched back to Swedish. “What the fuck are they doing _now?_ Fucking _animals!_ ”

Toki remained seated as the man tossed his guitar aside. A very brief exchange with Nathan sent him back; the Norwegian furrowed his brow when Skwisgaar explained in English, then raised an eyebrow when the Swede repeated it in a language Toki could understand. “He's making a door?”

“That's what he said.” Skwisgaar remained standing. “Just don't be surprised when an ax head comes through the wall.”

Sure enough, a couple more thwacks was all it took. Toki wished that Nathan would leave it alone, having come to consider this apartment a sanctuary of sorts from the foreign culture outside. Not that he would say anything to the contrary. Nathan scared the hell out of him.

“We aren't getting much work done with this,” the Swede decided. “You hungry?”

Toki shook the collar of his shirt as soon as he'd left the window unit's coolness behind. He'd never experienced _anything_ like this, before. Didn't this kind of humidity drive everyone crazy? Maybe that was why people still lived here. “I _hate_ this weather.”

“It's the worst.” The prospect to bitch made Skwisgaar forego challenging Toki to speak only in English. “The winter is okay. Just your luck you had to come _now_.”

Swinging his arms as he followed Skwisgaar to whatever restaurant he craved should've helped, but Toki only felt wet. His poor balls. And poor Skwisgaar, to have all that hair. “I didn't realize America was like this. The one time I saw it on a TV, there was snow.”

“It snows further north. Pickle grew up with it. Moidaface too, I think.”

“So why wouldn't the band live somewhere like _that_ , instead?”

“Nat'an is from around here. He and I talk about us all going somewhere cooler when we get the chance, though.”

“We're moving?” Hopefully, in a new place, Toki would still get to share space with Skwisgaar.

“Eventually. We'll finish the record, it'll sell, and we'll all be millionaires. Then we can do whatever we want and go wherever we feel like.”

“Millionaires?” Toki's eyes widened. “They'd give us _that_ much kroner?”

Skwisgaar laughed. “We'll get paid in American money. It's worth _way_ more than kroner. Probably twice as much, or something. We're in the richest country on Earth. Haven't you ever heard of the American dream?”

“Nei. . .”

“The idea is that you come here, get situated, and make your fortune however you please.” Skwisgaar's hand chopped the air as he explained. “I don't think it's as easy now as it used to be. They turn a lot of people away and there's not really as much money to go around. But then there's you and me.”

“They almost sent me back to Oslo, at the first airport I landed in. The lady was a lot nicer after they found an interpreter and I told her I just wanted to try out for you guys.” Toki wiped sweat from his upper lip. “I think she pitied me.”

“Who cares, so long as it got you into the country? They tried the same thing on me.”

Still, Toki _despised_ being looked at like that. He stunk, yes, and he'd never been given the opportunity to learn English, geography, or music, but the few things he _did_ have were by his own hard work. So what if he had to live on the streets for a while, or dig his Flying V out of a dumpster? He took care of himself and didn't owe anyone anything.

Except Skwisgaar, of course. Which came up again as the Swede passed one of the green bills over to the lady that sold them some sushi. “I'm keeping track of how much you spend on me, and I'm going to pay it all back.”

“Pah, things like this are a treat.”

“Don't, Skwisgaar. I said I'm paying you back, and that's final.”

“I've got plenty of money. I don't even notice it missing.”

“If you're going to be like that, then I'm not eating.” Toki crossed his arms and came to a stop on their way to a table. While he appreciated how much effort Skwisgaar put forth to ease his transition, he didn't want to be in anymore debt to the Swede. A stubborn turn of the head made the blond roll his eyes.

“Fine. Come and eat, then.”

Skwisgaar sulked while pouring soy sauce over his food, almost making Toki laugh again. “What's the matter?”

“I'm trying to be nice to you, and you basically just tell me to fuck off.”

“I didn't say that.”

“I'm doing everything I can to make sure you aren't as turned around as _I_ was, when I got here. Can't you realize that?”

“Wowee, calm down. I only said I was going to pay you back for everything you've given me. What's the big deal? At least I'm not _expecting_ you to take care of me, right?”

“I guess.”

Toki's stomach soured in the silence that followed. Unsure how else to end it, he punched Skwisgaar in the arm.

“Ow!” The Swede clutched at his shoulder. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why'd you do that?”

“I. . .” It wound up not helping the Norwegian's anxiety. He worked incredibly hard to forget that his parents would never speak to him again, and while Skwisgaar rewarded him with a reaction, Toki immediately regretted his actions. “I'm sorry.”

“Fuck!” The Swede rose. “Come on, let's just go back home if you're going to be like that.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“Let's _go_.”

Tears pricked at Toki's eyes, tightening his throat and compressing his chest as he followed Skwisgaar down the street. Better to be yelled at than ignored, but still. He wanted his only friend in the world to understand he didn't do it on purpose. He didn't want to hurt him. Not when, without Skwisgaar, Toki was left vulnerable to a foreign place. All the signs were in English, everyone spoke gibberish, and he didn't really know the way back. What if Skwisgaar decided to cut him off from food? Kicked him out of the apartment, or worse, the band?

While Skwisgaar became preoccupied with the hole Nathan and Murderface chipped away at in the wall, Toki passed for his bedroom. What a stupid thing to do. He _knew_ Skwisgaar wasn't like his parents. He _knew_ that. So then why couldn't he help himself? Why piss the guy off when the end result was getting ignored anyway?

He jumped later when a knock came at his door. “Toki, opens up.”

“Why?”

“You still needs to pracksis de guitar.”

Toki chewed on his bottom lip as he reached for the right word in English. “Later?”

“No, nows.”

Still anxious but unable to brush the Swede off, he returned to the living room. Toki could maybe face this if they weren't in such close proximity to the others; Murderface horked down some Mexican food in the other apartment's dining area and he and Nathan's eyes met for a brief second.

“What we prackis?” he quietly asked.

“We runs t'rough Blood Puke again. Den we sees from dere.”

Toki's nerves went into overdrive as Nathan's hulking figure loomed in the doorway he created. _Just keep up to Skwisgaar, just pay attention, forget about everyone else. . ._

The stumble in his fingers cleared up, which in turn eased the sneer on Skwisgaar's face. Nathan moved along when his interest waned, Murderface burped, Pickles expressed his disgust, and the Swede brought their guitars to an abrupt stop. “Goods. You t'inks you got dem all?”

Toki nodded.

“Den we plugs in and you plays dem part while I does my own.”

That required a bit more thought, distracting Toki until Skwisgaar finally let him take a break. The guilt returned as the Norwegian flexed his hands, then he remembered why he harboured it in the first place. The bruise on Skwisgaar's shoulder drew his gaze. “I really _am_ sorry about punching you.”

“Ins de English,” Skwisgaar replied.

“Sorry.”

“I don'ts know what get into you. We havings a good lunch, den bam! Seriouslies, what ams up wit' dat?”

“Can'ts I say in Norwegian?” Toki switched over anyway, lowering his voice. “I don't want the other guys to listen in on us. And I don't know enough words, yet.”

“Ja, go ahead.”

“I don't like to be ignored.”

“I wasn't ignoring you.”

“You were quiet.”

“You insulted me.”

“I've. . .I've never had someone take care of me like this, before.” Toki bowed his head. “I didn't mean to sound ungrateful.”

“You did, but it's an easy fix.” Needlessly, Skwisgaar tuned his guitar. “We'll do like you said. After we play in Toronto, you can pay me back for everything and that'll be the end of it.”

“We'll still be friends, right?”

“Ja.”

“And you won't kick me out of the band?”

“ _Pfft_.” Skwisgaar shoved Toki's shoulder amiably. “You think it's that easy?”

“I don't know. . .”

“If it was, we would've gotten rid of Dick Chin a lot sooner.”

Lingering anxiety hid behind a forced smile. Toki didn't exactly feel like playing his guitar anymore, but with the frontman's suggestion that they give band practice a shot, he lugged his amp into the other living room and set up beside Skwisgaar. Although he shied away from Nathan and Murderface, Toki retained a sense of awe to stand in their presences. His stomach flopped when the bassist acknowledged him with a nod. Until now, he could fool himself to believe that he and Skwisgaar simply jammed together like the musically inclined kids the Norwegian met in his stint as a vagabond. Whenever the band came up in conversation there, Toki kept quiet about his ties to Dethklok's lead guitarist; no one would've believed him. _He_ didn't even, as he studied the tall, thin blond now. Toki wasn't just friends with this guy, anymore. They were in a band together. And not just _some_ band. Toki added his signature to the contract with Crystal Mountain the last time Mr. Offdensen popped by, he _lived_ with these guys, and he _played_ amongst legends.

“Ready?” Nathan asked. With no dissent, Pickles counted them in. Pounding bass sped up Toki's heart, sending him back to the streets of Göteburg not long after wishing Skwisgaar luck at the airport. A grin spread across his face, both then and now, as he recalled the thrill of hearing Skwisgaar's name announced by Nathan to the city of New Orleans on the radio. He danced in Göteburg, but now he simply took a deep breath, caught the rhythm somewhere between the other guys, and set about proving himself the correct choice for this position.

None of them could be gauged for an opinion beyond the fact that Nathan kept naming off songs to go through. Maybe wishful thinking birthed gooseflesh over Toki's arms, but they sounded good. _Real_ good. Better than the bits he once heard on the radio. He'd noticed while Skwisgaar ran through the songs that they'd undergone some changes since Magnus left—a good call.

When all had been played, the other four emerged from their trance. Pickles blinked, lips parted, Nathan and Murderface stared at each other, and Skwisgaar flicked his hair back to reveal a triumphant smirk. “See? Magnus coulds never play like dat.”

A thick arm wrapped around Toki's neck, throwing him off balance. Nathan rubbed his knuckled briefly into the top of his head, then shoved him away. Until the Norwegian saw the man's grin, he couldn't figure out what motivated the American to accost him. Murderface mirrored his glee and Pickles came out from behind his kit. All four of them spoke in rapid English, mostly at each other, sometimes toward Toki. Whatever they said, their excitement was infectious.

“That's the best practice we've ever had,” Skwisgaar translated into Swedish for Toki once a handful of beers got passed around. “Nat'an says we're going to blow Toronto off the map.”

“Think so?” Toki let his hair hide his warming cheeks when Skwisgaar pat him on the back.

“You're going to fit in very well.”

Pickles reached over to pop the cap on Toki's beer bottle. It _should_ taste good, judging by how quickly the drummer and frontman put their first one of the night away, but the teenager's nose wrinkled with a mere sniff. He'd rather have some orange juice.

While the Americans chatted amongst themselves, Skwisgaar slid from the couch to the floor to sit beside Toki. “You can drink, you know. We'll make sure you don't get sloppy, and promise, you'll never be a drinker like Pickles or Nat'an.”

“It smells kind of gross.”

“Try it before you say for sure.”

Toki pulled a face of disgust, hardly managing to swallow.

“Hm. Come to the kitchen. Let's try something else.”

Skwisgaar pulled the orange juice from the fridge and added it to a splash of vodka. Toki sniffed it before attempting a sip. Much better. Vodka made the juice taste as if it started going out of date, but the Norwegian felt more a part of the band as he resumed his seat in the living room. The first one went down easy enough, leaving him relaxed and internally warm, then he lost track of who put the next ones in his hand. Skwisgaar's remained bearable, but Pickles' made him cringe. He drank them anyway. Before he knew it, he kneeled on the floor in front of the toilet and wiped at burning eyes while the band all gathered in the bathroom's doorway.

“Feel better?” Skwisgaar asked when the others wandered off.

“I hate throwing up.” Toki's stomach _did_ settle now, though. “I don't want to do this anymore.”

“You shouldn't have drank them so fast. Come on, I'll help you to your room.”

“I can do it myself. I'm okay.”

Carefully as he could, Toki edged along the wall. He ignored the guys as they laughed, unsure if it was even intended for him. His bed never felt so good though, that was for sure. Burying his face in his pillow couldn't end the spinning and whirring. Uh oh. Here it came again. . .

The chemical smell of carpet cleaner replaced the puddle of vomit by morning. With a groan, Toki rolled onto his back. What a mistake. He was _never_ going to drink again. Why did people even do that? All it did was make you sick.

In attempt to make himself feel better, Toki changed into fresh clothes and fell back asleep. Sun filtered determinedly through his window, forcing him to pull his blankets over his head as morning turned to afternoon, then he resorted to getting up as doors creaked and the shower ran. A couple klokateers already occupied the other apartment's kitchen, as well as Pickles and Nathan. The smell of pancakes made Toki's mouth water.

“Heeey, come sit,” Pickles invited him over with a wave of his hand. Feeling more confident after the previous night, even if they all laughed at his drunken stumbling, Toki perked up and took a seat beside the dreadlocked redhead. The man said something else that the Norwegian couldn't understand, making him giggle. He could've been telling Toki that he was out of the band, but he still sounded so silly.

Nathan repeating what Pickles said gave Toki the impression that they actually had something important to relay, rather than humdrum conversation. He blinked at the frontman, unable to comprehend, until Skwisgaar followed him over.

The Swede rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then nodded. “They're wondering if you've ever played before a crowd before.”

Toki shaking his head prompted Nathan to say something else. Skwisgaar translated: “Then maybe Toronto shouldn't be your first gig. There'll be thousands of people there. Would you like it if we played something smaller, first?”

“I'm not nervous, but okay.”

The other three chatted in English. “We'll do it tonight, then. There's this bar nearby, the Depths of Humanity. It's a total shithole, so there won't be too many people there.”

Having his first time on stage come up so soon caused a flutter of butterflies in Toki's stomach. Maybe he _was_ a little nervous. The worst seemed over at least, now that the band embraced him as one of their own. Surely, they wouldn't even let him appear in _public_ with them, if he didn't deserve to be here.

Practicing would make him feel better. After eating as much breakfast as he possibly could, he grabbed his guitar. Skwisgaar already practiced in his room. With a shy knock and clear of his throat, Toki announced his presence. “Mind if I play with you?”

“Ins de English.”

“We prackis?”

“Ja, come sits.”

Judging by the Swede's made bed and the slight aroma of vanilla, Skwisgaar's personal klokateer already visited here this morning. Toki hadn't ever actually been inside his room yet, causing him to pause. A bowed head and busy fingers on the blond's meant they wouldn't relocate to the living room. With a shrug, Toki plopped down beside him.

Between this and being summoned by Nathan for a proper practice, Toki's nerves transformed to a quiet confidence. He played just fine, so what difference came with the twenty or so people dwindling their evening away in the dingy bar they later arrived at? An appetite even made itself known, although Pickles—with a wrinkled nose—took away the greasy chicken wing he tried to eat. “Better naht. You'll puke again. Never eat here.”

The place's patrons didn't even pretend to care as they set up on stage. No one probably expected them to play there, after the grand scale of a typical Dethklok show, Toki reasoned. That made it even easier to push his nerves aside as the venue came alive with their music. Once they got underway, it wouldn't matter anymore if he stood before twenty or twenty-thousand. This was fun, to be on stage with these guys, to see the reaction they automatically pulled. What an honour, to be amongst such talent, and what a mind-fuck to be _part_ of it.

After the show. . .was different. He sat next to a terse Murderface and casually watched the other three members of the band accrue a small group of ladies. The bassist grumbled under his breath, probably related to that fact, and while Nathan and Pickles stuck close to the pool tables, Skwisgaar disappeared with a couple brunettes. If Toki knew the words, he'd suggest that he and Murderface go home. Neither of them were comfortable.

“Hi.”

The unfamiliar voice and a hand on his shoulder made Toki jump. A blonde responded in kind when he attempted to discern who snuck up on him. Murderface's mumblings grew more fervent as she smiled and said something else, making Toki blush from embarrassment. “Sorry, I don't speaks English that goods. . .”

“Come,” she simplified. Not entirely sure what she wanted although expecting it with how the other ladies behaved once they learned who'd crashed their bar, Toki let her lead him away from the table. Rather than be excited like the others, his heart palpitated and his palms started to sweat. He'd never done anything with a girl before, spared all but his own touch. Had the urge even visited him? He didn't think so. . .

Another wave of warmth washed his cheeks when they passed the bathroom, where Skwisgaar holed up. Giggling broke the Swede's voice, as well as his mother tongue. Toki couldn't imagine saying _anything_ like that, not even within his own mind. The pure shock of it stirred something, making him think that maybe this _was_ possible to enjoy when the girl guided him back against the wall and lowered herself to her knees. His first instinct when she nimbly undid his jeans was to push her away with a polite 'no thanks you', but her warm mouth caused him pause. Then his fingers crept into her hair, the blonde strands the last thing he saw before closing his eyes and leaning his head back so that he could simply enjoy it. He could still hear Skwisgaar through the wall. . .

Weirdness welled up inside him when he returned to the table. Too preoccupied with their ladies or the lack thereof in Murderface's case, the other guys didn't notice his quiet solitude. Beer didn't taste so bad when Skwisgaar came back, necessity overriding his previous vow not to ever drink again. Dizziness forced him to lean on the Swede up the apartment building's stairs when they finally left the venue, all the way to his bed.

“Skwisgaar,” he slurred when the blond pulled the cover back for him. “I have a confession to make.”

“Ja?”

“I don't think I'm very metal.”

“Why not?”

“I don't like drinking and I don't like ladies.” Toki stumbled sideways. If not for earlier, he wouldn't care so much about undressing in front of the Swede.

“You'll get used to it. You just need to adjust.” Skwisgaar paused. “Pickle mentioned you got pulled off by a lady. Never done that before, huh?”

Toki shook his head.

“They're going to start throwing themselves at you. It's the way it is, when you're in a band like this.”

“What if I don't want them to?”

“Then tell them no.”

“Okay.” Deciding to forget about removing his clothes, Toki crawled into bed. “I'm sorry.”

“What for?”

Toki shrugged.

“Whatever.” A chuckle came from the blond. “Sleep well.”  


	18. Opal

Back to being sardines in a can while rain deluged outside.

Shoulders hunched, Murderface spared himself from pressing up against a slouching Pickles. Skwisgaar unintentionally replicated the lines that Toki ran through inside the booth; what a weird effect, to hear the twang here as well as the respective notes through the glass. The Norwegian's fingers fluidly ripped through anything Skwisgaar told him to do. And Murderface couldn't help but hate him a little for it.

Nearly two months passed since Magnus got the boot. Murderface still couldn't believe it, in a sense; he totally expected some days that the apartment door would open, Magnus would stroll in, and they'd be the Dethklok they were before Toki came along. He and Nathan were the only ones left of the original line-up; much as Murderface liked Pickles on a personal level, somedays he missed palling around with Lawrence. Without Magnus now, Murderface had no allies left. Nathan made his choice on where his allegiance stood, not that he had the option once their old rhythm guitarist plunged a knife into his shoulder. What scared the bassist the most was that Nathan showed no fear in casting out someone who caused so much strife within the band. How many times before, in pitting the guys against one another, had Murderface risked a similar exit?

He laid low, now. Magnus was right when he pointed out that Murderface didn't really have any importance in Dethklok. There were plenty of bassists out there much better than himself, and he was lucky his prior friendship with the frontman blinded him toward that.

“Sounds good. Come on out,” Nathan told Toki when the track ended. The Norwegian plopped down on the opposite end of the couch, high in spirits, unlike the rest seated there. They'd been here so many times. Please let this be the one. . .

Nathan crossed his arms. “Anyone hungry?”

Silence. Then Pickles spoke up: “Dood, whet about the album?”

“Got a good feeling about it, but I can't be totally sure. I think we should give it a listen through when we get back from Toronto, then make a decision.” The frontman paused. “I think we've got it. Toki's way better than Magnus. He can do the shit that Skwisgaar wants him to. Don't get too excited yet, though. Never know, there might be a couple things here and there that need to get fixed.”

How could there be? For all the times they recorded—all the times they ran through each song with Nathan, Skwisgaar, and Pickles' perfectionist tendencies constantly altering their work—what remained? If Nathan felt like they were anywhere near done, they probably were. Good. That would get Offdensen off their case. “I don't know about anyone elsche, but pizzscha schoundsch good.”

They'd occupied the studio long enough to dry off from the sprint in, but the wind and rain outside seemed to multiply tenfold. To the southeastern horizon, a rippled, black mass blocked out the sun. Far too casually, Nathan grunted. “Oh yeah. I forgot there was a hurricane warning.”

“You. . . _fergaht?_ ”

This summer had been _terrible_ so far for tropical storms. Not many came as far as Florida's west coast, but it looked like their luck just ran out. To play with the disconcerted expression on Toki's face, the bassist nudged him. “We're probably gonna die, it'sch no big deal.”

“Fucks off, Moidaface, leaves him alone,” Skwisgaar said. “We amn'ts gonna die. Just gets a bit wet, is all.”

Understatement. Another run for the van left them them soaked right through to the skin. Nathan cursed frequently while driving, for the water pooling in the streets pulled them every which way. “Maybe we should just go home. I doubt Vikernes' is open anyway. We gotta nail down the doors and windows and shit, still.”

“We don't have any food there!” Murderface hollered. “What the fuck're we gonna eat if we're schtuck there for a couple daysch?”

“ _You_ , asshole.”

Even though Nathan was probably right that their usual pizza haunt closed down, Murderface still felt cheated when they pulled up to their apartment and klokateers had already done all the work for them. Pickles' squeaky sneakers and five pairs of pounding feet drowned out his spirited mumblings, but Murderface instantly felt better when stepping into the apartment slammed him with a pleasant aroma. “Hey, food!”

“We've prepared your meal, my masters,” one of the klokateers informed them. “And we have enough food to sustain everyone for five days. The entire building is prepared for—”

“Yeah, whatever, get out of the way. Starving people, coming through,” Nathan cut him off.

The klokateer cleared his throat. “Master Offdensen wished for me to inform him when you returned. I will tend to that.”

“Yeeuh, whetever. Jest go awee.”

Pickles stripped down to his underwear, leaving his wet clothes on the living room floor while he took a seat at the table. Rain pounded against the roof and wind whistled through any crack it could find. Toki trembled lightly in his chair, appetite apparently fled. Murderface leaned over. “Hey, if we're gonna die, you don't wanna die hungry, do you?”

“Dood, leave the kid alone,” Pickles stated. “He ain't used ta this crep. Yer jest gonna make it werse for'm.”

“It'sch true, though! If we die, he'sch gonna die hungry! I'm juscht being a good guy, telling him that!”

“When're you _ever_ a good guy, Murderface?” Nathan asked. “Seriously, leave him alone. Why do you think you need to drive everyone crazy when they join the band?”

“Ja, ams dat you rites of pasgage?”

“Maybe thisch isch how I make friendsch.”

“You don't have any friends here.”

Murderface balked at Nathan's bluntness. “Exshcusche me?”

None of us are your friends,” the frontman repeated with a glance around the table. “I mean, that's fair to say, right?”

“Yeeuh, I mean, ya smell like a garbage can. You even somehow make _my_ room smell like shit.”

“You ams a gargoyles.” Skwisgaar waved a hand at him. “I t'anks Odin I didn'ts come out of my moms lookings like you. Ams de forst t'ing I does every mornings.”

“I can't stand to eat the same time you are.” True to his word, Nathan had yet to touch his plate. “Because it makes me lose my appetite. You spit everywhere, you grunt and groan, and you don't close your mouth.”

“That'sch becausche I can't!”

“See? Yer grotesque. Everything about you.” Pickles shrugged. “Nothin' you kin help. But we're jest tellin' you thet. So it shouldn't hert yer feelings 'r anything, by yer logic.”

The drummer, frontman, and lead guitarist watched him for a reaction. Pressing his lips together, Murderface denied them of that. “If you're juscht going to be asscholesch, I'm going to eat in my room.”

Behind his door, the bassist slid his plate onto the top of his dresser and resigned to the bed. Ouch. He'd be fooling himself to pretend that didn't hurt. At least he saved face by getting away before the poisonous ink welling in his chest spread like tentacles throughout his body. Maybe this hurricane was a blessing in disguise. Maybe _he_ would die, and spare everyone his disgusting existence.

Chaos reigned beyond his sealed room. Garbage cans skittered about in the alleyway behind, rain hit the building in sheets, and the lamp soon flickered out. Murderface crossed his arms and curled inward when a soft knock came at his door. “Go away.”

“Moidaface.” It was Toki.

“Schcram, kid.”

Unlike the others would've, the Norwegian didn't leave. Murderface couldn't chalk it up as him simply not understanding; if Toki understood anything the bassist said from repetition, it was _that_. He curled into a ball, tensing when his shoulder was shaken.

“Ums. . .hi.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Comes out and sit with us.”

“Did they schend you?”

“Ja.”

“Tell them to go fuck themschelvesch.”

“We can hear you just fine,” Nathan spoke from the other room. “Quit being such a fucking baby and get out here.”

“No.”

“Murderface, _now_.”

Grumbling, although he liked to believe that the other guys really wanted his company, Murderface rolled out of bed. They surrounded a lantern in the living room like a bunch of dumb hobos, its light sharpening their faces. It struck Murderface again that _this_ was Dethklok. Weren't they supposed to be _America's_ next greatest thing? Now look. Half-Scandinavian, and those two couldn't even speak the language. After all the months Skwisgaar spent here, surely he should've gotten better? Maybe he had some sort of learning disability. Hopefully Toki didn't stick too close to him; it was annoying enough with _one_ person speaking pidgin English.

Why couldn't they keep Lawrence and Magnus? Lawrence, for only having one leg, was a damn good drummer. And Magnus was completely fine until Blondie showed up. The more Murderface considered it, the more this seemed like Skwisgaar's band. He'd gotten rid of Magnus with his constant nagging, teasing, and irritability, then brought his own friends in. He'd corralled Nathan and Pickles into his corner, limiting the creative input to just the three of them. Didn't they care what Murderface had to say? What about Toki? Surely the Norwegian wasn't as disinclined for a voice as he insisted. A day would more than likely come when the stars in his eyes faded and reality set in: he existed in a band full of assholes and jerks. He and Murderface were simply the means to an end. Nathan, Skwisgaar, and Pickles only wanted Toki for his talent, and they only wanted Murderface for his. . .well, the bassist really had no idea _what_ he contributed to the team.

“You done sulking?”

“Fuck you.”

“Dood, I dunno why yer takin' it so hard. We all gaht shit thet's annoying.” Pickles shrugged. “Like Skwisgare 'n' his old ladies.”

“Hey Pickle, lays off, why don'ts you?” Skwisgaar crossed his arms. “I can'ts help dat old ladies likes me.”

“You could help sleepin' wid 'em, don'tcha think?”

“ _You_ coulds help drinking a lots less and den maybes we could figures out what de fuck you talkings about all de time. And maybes you wouldn'ts pass out on de floor in you underwears—”

“All right, quit it,” Nathan cut them off. “We're gonna be stuck in here with each other for a while, so fucking cool it. I don't wanna spend the next couple days listening to you all bicker like little girls.”

“What _elsche_ is there to do?”

“Gets drunk?” Skwisgaar suggested.

“Yeeuh, 'n' then whet?”

One thing at a time. A round of beers came out of the fridge. Might as well drink them now, before they went warm, Murderface reasoned. He attempted to match Pickles by downing his in one go, but it ended with a shudder. “When did you all get into metal, anyway? Or muschic?”

“I wasn' aware this was gonna be an inteeragation.”

“Well then don't anschwer the queschtion, geezch! I wasch juscht curiousch!”

“I always liked it, far back as I remember it existed,” Nathan answered. “Listened to it all through high school. Got me fucking pumped like nothing else for a football game.”

“Firscht band you heard? Schong?”

“Uhhh. . .” Nathan frowned. “I dunno, actually. It's all kind of a blur. Probably Metallica, or something. I remember playing Angel of Death on repeat for days, when that album came out. Shit was brutal.”

“I was alwees lookin' fer somethin' heavier,” Pickles agreed. “All there feckin' was where I grew up was Christian rahck bands. Gross.”

“We hads good metal back homes,” Skwisgaar piped up. “Dere ams Therion, Mercyful Fates. . .nots dat I reallies listen to dem. I was makings metal befores I even knews what it was.”

“Don't be scho pompousch.”

“Ams true! I finds my guitar, I starts playing dis music, and den one days I goes into a music store and dere ams dese tapes what am kinds of like what I doing. Except I was betters dan de guitarists on dem.”

Murderface scoffed, although he sort of believed it. No one could deny Skwisgaar's skill. “I wasch big into Motorhead and AC/DC—”

“'Course you were.”

“Schut up, Picklesch. But that waschn't heavy enough. Bandsch like thosche have to exischt, scho that you can get introdusched to rock or metal but not be overwhelmed.”

“That's bullshit and you know it. What about _our_ fans?” Nathan argued. “I'm seeing more and more kids at the shows, kids younger than I was when I really started to take metal seriously.”

“Maybe thingsch are changing, I don't know! Why're you aschking me?”

“You braught it up!”

Skwisgaar sniggered and elbowed Toki. “Tells dem what you used to does.”

The Norwegian shook his head, said something in his first language, then sighed when Skwisgaar waved him off. “He used to tricks he parents into t'inking metals was gospels music.”

“Whet! How, even?”

“Makes de song sound cheerful, t'ing like dat. He only hads a grandpas guitar to play wit'.” The Swede cast Toki a fond glance. “Dems bunch of religlous weirdos couldn'ts tell de diffsrence.”

Nathan shoved Toki. “Fucking rascal. Man, parents are lame. You and Toki weren't here when we started to get real big, but mine fucking insisted on coming to every show pretty much, for a while. Talk about embarrassing.”

Skwisgaar frowned. “You parents would do dat for you?”

“At leascht you _have_ parents. . .” Murderface grumbled.

“Why, where're _yers?_ Run off ta Alaska, 'r some shit?”

“No, they're fucking dead. Scho schut the fuck up.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Then Toki quietly contributed: “Mine mights as well be. They disowns me.”

“Whoa. Thet's fecked up. Both ya guys.”

“Hey, hold on.” Nathan brought the conversation to a halt. “Remember when we swore we weren't gonna care about each other's lives? This is starting to sound a bit like caring.”

“Uhh, when's we agree this?” Toki asked.

“Before you came along.”

“Ja, well, I wasn'ts asked.”

“You're not allowed to care, Toki.”

“But I does! Is sad to not has parents! It sucks for Moidaface!”

“Toki!” Nathan snapped. “Stop it.”

“Fine.”

Although Murderface agreed to that when it first came up, he appreciated what the Norwegian attempted. When Nathan, Skwisgaar, and Pickles weren't looking, he shared a secret smile with the kid. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all. Maybe _these_ guys weren't so bad. Nathan eventually had to realize that, with their fame, they weren't ever going to have friends outside of this elite group. Murderface missed watching marathons of war footage with Lawrence, but Magnus remained somewhere out there. Their paths might cross again one day, who knew? Until then, Dethklok finished their first album (hopefully not the only one they ever wrote) and they poised to go forth and take over the world. For a kid from Jersey that couldn't go a day of elementary school without getting his head shoved into a toilet, Murderface figured he really hadn't done too badly with himself. 


	19. World in Their Hands

The room was large, dark, and stuffy, exactly what General Crozier expected when he arrived. As the last one, he made his way to his seat with no acknowledgement towards the others that too answered the summons. Who were these people? The only one he recognized was the broad old man seated front and centre, to the left of the chair designated for himself. Maybe, like him, they'd been everywhere, seen things, _knew_ things, but left no trace. Pulled the strings of the system, so to speak. Funny they should meet _here_ , of all places.

And for such a ridiculous reason.

After being tracked down at Fort Benning by Selatcia, Crozier gathered as much information as he could for the matter at hand. The backgrounds for Toki Wartooth, Pickles the Drummer, William Murderface, and Skwisgaar Skwigelf were suspiciously absent from the public records he had access to, but common lines of work between he and Dethklok's frontman and manager offered the general a small upper hand over these other individuals. Nathan Explosion served in Desert Storm back in 1990-91—not far from where he himself was stationed, shockingly—and Charles Offdensen, of course, was infamous for sanctioning massive destruction of U.S. military property. _No one_ should've been able to bounce back from that, career-wise. Somehow the man eluded prison, the suicide anyone with a conscience would've been driven to, and obscurity. Crozier often chalked it up to luck when the man's name became legend amongst the higher-ups (not to mention a brief-lived euphemism for coming out unscathed from an extremely precarious situation), but now he wasn't so sure. With how the world changed in the previous decade. . .

The door slid open again, revealing a tall slender man with grey hair. Crozier resisted straightening his spine or otherwise greeting the final attendee, for he recognized Senator Stampington from his own government. How high up _did_ this group reach? Was the president aware of this meeting, by any chance? Or did everything beyond these walls halt before their sub rosa operation?

“Good evening gentlemen, and thank you all for coming.” The band's logo faded off the conglomerate television behind the Senator, to darkness. “Let's get started.”

As far as Crozier knew, no footage existed of Båtsfjord once all the electrical equipment in the area fell prey to aggravated ions. Or whatever excuse the media hid behind. He maintained a straight face as thousands of people died before him within the space of five minutes. If this scale of destruction happened within any other context, these animals would've been hunted down and shot point-blank. But because the people wanted them, and because the economy (terrifyingly enough) came to rely on them. . .

A blow to Dethklok's oversized helicopter sent it reeling sideways on screen, and Senator Stampington stepped back into the light. “As you can see, Dethklok is no laughing matter. They're the world's greatest cultural force. In the short time since the Duncan Hills Coffee Jingle Båtsfjord Massacre Fest, every other coffee company has been obliterated. Completely blown out of the water.”

“Freaks.” Crozier couldn't abstain from muttering under his breath. Little did he realize just how well this room's acoustics functioned.

A small nod from the Senator relayed his agreement. “These _freaks_ , as you call them, are currently worth billions. . .” 


End file.
